These Are The Names
by FernWithy
Summary: Effie Trinket becomes the District 12 escort, and works with Haymitch through fourteen years before his last tributes come along.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One: Temperance**

**Chapter One**  
"Euphemia Trinket?"

"Yes," I say, and hand him my credentials. I am trying very hard not to notice the room beyond the front door, but the smell makes it difficult. Caesar Flickerman warned me that Haymitch Abernathy does his best to be off-putting, and he is succeeding admirably. He's turned a fine house in Victors' Village into something that looks like a garbage pit and smells like an abattoir. He doesn't do much better with his personal hygiene. I know he's a good looking man. I saw him before he let himself go, and I've helped clean him up in the Capitol. But here at home, he greets me the day before the reaping unshaven, filthy, and wearing long underwear that looks like it might be able to walk off on its own. Judging by the smell, he's seen more of the inside of a bottle than the inside of his shower, and his hair is sticking up in greasy black clumps. He seems to have made a passing attempt at shaving in the recent past, but it's uneven, and there's a large spot along his jawline that was missed entirely.

I watched his Games on the way out here. He looks better than he did when he was holding his spilling guts in… but it's a pretty close thing.

He squints at my credentials. "You're the hair girl, right?"

"I was on the girl's prep team, yes. But - "

"What are you, fifteen years old?"

"I'll be eighteen next month. I know I'm young, but -"

"This says you're my escort. Glass on to bigger and better things?"

"He was transferred to District Four."

"Four?" He frowns. "Why Four?"

"I don't know. They just called me in to say I needed to replace him."

He looks at me for a long, long time. Usually, when men do that, I have some idea what they're thinking about, but he doesn't have that look about him. "You're the one who cleaned me up last year. Before Glass stuck me on television."

"Yes."

"And they didn't fire you for it?"

"No. That's why Mr. Flickerman promoted me. He said I did what I was supposed to do. That the escort is there to _help_ the mentor. I'm here to help you." In fact, he told me that he'd been trying to get rid of Mr. Abernathy's old escort, Ausonius Glass, for years, and that it was Glass's _attempt_ to have me fired that led to the final blow-out, but I decide that Mr. Abernathy doesn't need to know about that. It's all settled now, though by the sound of it, Mr. Flickerman was annoyed that he still couldn't just fire Glass. I don't know why. I can't imagine anyone doing less of what he was supposed to do.

"Here to help," Mr. Abernathy muses. "That'd be a first. What are you really supposed to do, Euphemia? I know Caesar's got an agenda, but I don't know what it is." He tips my folder at me. "Says here, you did six years in Capitol Dreams before you joined my preps. And you quit school?"

"I tested out," I say. It's not his business that I just couldn't stay there any more, not after the… the thing they did with my wig. Not after they posted pictures of it all over the walls, with me crying and bloodied. That's not anyone's business but mine. "I did graduate, you know. I have my credentials. Well, _you_ have them at the moment."

He looks at my file again. "Credentials in hair and fashion."

"Yes. And I took a math class once, even though it wasn't required." There's no response to this. I lower my eyes. "Well, Mr. Flickerman said you might want to know that."

"Did you take any history? Literature?"

"Those are more of college school sorts of classes. I was in practical school. We take things we'll be able to use in a job."

He sighs. "That sounds familiar enough. I had to take mine safety." He shakes his head. "Well, I'd invite you in to say hello, but you look like you're about to faint out on the porch. Gimme a second. Want a drink?"

"No. Thank you."

"Your call." He shuts the door, leaving me on his porch, which should be a pleasant enough space, but somehow isn't. I sit down on a delicate ornamental bench that I am reasonably certain was never purchased by the man behind the door.

It's not that he has his mess out here, or even the faint smell that comes through from a slightly open window. It's certainly not the view, which is quite pretty. District Twelve is full of trees and dense grasses, and the green in the Village is beautifully kept.

I think it's just those eleven other houses, the empty ones, staring back with their blank window eyes. Maybe I'd drink, too, if they were staring at me all year.

I shake it off. Medusa - the boys' hairstylist - warned me that districts could be a little spooky sometimes. They seem too quiet, she told me. Things are as still as the grave. "That's why the district kids are so strange," she said. "It's like they're on ice all the time, and never get a chance to move around. There's nothing to stimulate the mind, and they just sort of… _stew_ out there. It must drive the smart ones crazy. That's probably why they rebelled. Here in the Capitol, we know how to keep people busy."

I suppose this is true. In the Capitol, I'm never bored. I don't have a lot of friends, but there's always a party to go to, or a club, or an amusement complex. If I start to get bored, I can go out and do anything I want. I was on the carousel at the lakeside when I got the call to come to Games headquarters three days ago. After that, there was a crazy shopping binge - escorts have to have better clothes than preps, and I got a very nice stipend for it - and then packing and workshops about what I'm supposed to do. Now, everything has just… _stopped._

Even the train ride out here was maddening. It was comfortable, of course - they spare no expense for the tributes - but being trapped in the same place for so many hours was maddening. I was glad for the television, and a small game room they have for the wardrobe staff, and a good selection of magazines… but none of those are meant to take as much time as there is to dispose of. One of the District Six transportation staffers suggested that I look out the windows, but I don't know what I was supposed to be looking for. All I saw was a big expanse of grayish land so flat that it looked like someone took an iron to it. I was glad when we started to approach District Twelve. At least the mountains were something different to see.

The door behind me opens. Mr. Abernathy has put on clothes - expensive, high-quality ones that he somehow manages to make look like rags - and possibly even run a washcloth over himself. He sits down beside me, but doesn't look at me. "So they sent you to pull the names. Some job you have here, Euphemia."

"They sent me to take care of the tributes."

"They all die, you know. They don't come back. You're calling them to die." I don't answer. He finally looks at me. "What, no speech about how death in the Games is noble? How they're glorifying their lives by dying bravely? Isn't that the line from Capitol Dreams?"

I _was_ going to say something like that, but I don't. Looking at all the houses, the houses looking back at me, I guess it doesn't seem all that noble. But it's a _chance_.

And I have to be positive. That was the one thing Caesar insisted on. He said that they'd take me away if I let it get under my skin. I'm not sure where he thinks they'd take me. Apparently, the whole reason they let him hire me was that my parents put me in Capitol Dreams when I was nine, which means I've had a lot of experience with the Games.

I decide to leave it alone. Before I came to work for District Twelve last year, Miss Meadowbrook at Capitol Dreams warned me that Mr. Abernathy would try to "push my buttons." She used to date him, and still seems quite fond of him, though she laughs about how very seriously he takes everything. ("He actually used the word 'love' on our first date," she told me, rolling her eyes. "Before we even tried each other out. And don't get him started on the Games.")

"Nothing?" he asks me. "No comments?"

I shrug.

He takes a drink. "So, unless I missed a day, the reapings aren't until tomorrow. What are you doing here? I know they schedule the trains especially for the Games, so it's not the only time you could catch one."

"I don't know anything about District Twelve," I say. "I thought I should find out."

He raises his eyebrows. "Wow. You've been here five minutes, and you're already a better escort than Glass. What do you want to know?"

"Could you show me around?"

"In _that_ get-up?" he asks.

"What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing, if you're riding around the Capitol. In District Twelve? It's not going to work. And if you think you're going to make friends around here, you may as well give that up. All you'll ever be in District Twelve is the one who calls the names."

I look down. "I'd like to _try_, Mr. Abernathy."

He's quiet for a long time, then he finally says, "I believe you. And it's Haymitch. I think once you've seen me in my underwear, we're on a first name basis. And while we're on names, what do they really call you?"

"Euphemia."

"No, they don't. What do your friends call you?"

"I've asked the people I know to call me Euphemia."

He wrinkles his nose. "What about your parents?"

"They used to call me 'Effie,'" I admit.

"See? That's a real girl's name."

"It's a _little_ girl's name."

"I think a grown-up lady could wear it well enough, and it's a whole lot easier to say."

"Fine. You can call me Effie. But not to other people, all right?"

He shakes his head in disbelief and says, "If that's what you want. Where do you mean to stay tonight?"

"I have a room at the inn. I don't really know where it is."

"I do." He sighs and stands up. "Come on. It's way across town from here, so I hope those heels don't hurt you much."

"Do you have a car?"

"I couldn't drive it if I did." He sways a little and sits back down. "And probably shouldn't. Most people in District Twelve walk places. Let's give it ten minutes. The guy who does the gardens has a little cart. Maybe he can take you in."

We end up waiting a little more than an hour. I prod him into telling me at least a little bit about the district, though after a little while, he stops talking. I get more from the gardener, Merle Undersee, in the ten minute trip across town to the inn. Undersee is much more positive about the town. He points out the little shops, and tells me about his wife and his little baby girl. He talks about the coal production issues, and where the prettiest flowers grow.

"And don't let Haymitch fool you," he says as we pull up to the inn. "He grumps about the place a lot, but he's as much District Twelve as the rest of us. And believe me when I tell you, he's glad to have _you_ here. He hates Ausonius Glass like poison."

"He didn't seem glad."

"He was still sitting out on the porch with you. He asked me to take you back here. Most people, he'd just leave to sink or swim. He was being downright sociable to you, by his standards." Undersee grins. "Don't worry too much. He's got an edge on him, but he takes people like they are - not like he guesses they're going to be - and as long as you're decent to him, he'll be decent to you."

"Thank you." I climb off the cart.

"You enjoy your stay. I can't say anyone here's going to enjoy it, with the reaping tomorrow, but that's nothing personal. You try the ham and peas at the inn. I hear it's great. And you might want to drop by Cartwright's for some walking shoes if you mean to look around. And have some strawberry pie from Mellark's. They're in season and fresh."

"Thank you again."

"Nice to meet you, Effie," he says, and I realize for the first time that I gave him the wrong name. After listening to Haymitch call me Effie for a while, I guess I just had it on the brain. I'll have to remember the right one when I meet the mayor tomorrow.

I watch him pull away, and go inside. The young woman minding the counter hands me a key - an actual old metal key, the sort of thing that might open a fairy tale gate - and mutters some kind of a welcome. I go upstairs and put my bag on the four-poster bed. The room here is immaculate, and it looks out on the pretty town square, where they're already setting up the stage for tomorrow. The crew came up with me, and I guess they're setting things up, too, though I don't see them.

I don't change my shoes. I already walked to Victors' Village from the train station in these, and they're actually quite comfortable. I can't quite see myself wearing the flat-foot boots that I see the women in the square wearing.

I do change clothes into something a little less conspicuous - a blue skirt and a pink top - and I wash off some of my makeup. I don't really have a wig that would pass for local, and obviously, going without isn't on the menu. Now that I have money, after the Games, I'll get the scars on my scalp removed, but at the moment, my head looks like a jigsaw puzzle.

_(Let's have a look at her! Grab her! Hold her down! Let's see what's under Effie's wig!)_

I shudder, and make myself not think about it. I've gotten good at that in the past year. But usually, I have a few televisions to turn on, or a party to go to. Anything but thinking about the way the wig pins tore out pieces of my scalp when they yanked it off. About the way they kept me pinned down, and grabbed my shirt and tore it. About what might have happened if the teachers hadn't come when they did. About coming in the next day and finding the pictures projected _everywhere_.

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. I know better than to dwell on negatives.

There's no television in my room, so I go downstairs to the lounge to watch the preliminary Games coverage. There's even a little special on me.

I walk around the square a little bit after. No one seems inclined to talk to me. At the bakery, I get a slice of strawberry pie, which really is heavenly, though I don't miss the fact that the baker shoos his little children into the back when I come in. He's nice enough otherwise. I start to go down a side street, but a gray-eyed miner says, "Ma'am, that's not a place you want to head for. Let me walk you back to wherever you belong."

He doesn't talk to me all the way back to the inn.

I think I'll just come for reaping day next year.

There is no air conditioning here, and I rest uncomfortably with the window open. It's screened, but I still wonder what sorts of things might get through it. Something out there is making a chirping noise. Under it, I hear rough men arguing in the streets.

I don't sleep until very late, and I'm glad I arranged for someone to wake me. The reaping isn't until two, and there's a lot to do. I wasn't allowed to bring a prep team, so I have to make myself up (luckily, I have experience in this), and I have to choose the right outfit, and I have to touch base with all of the technical crew. There's a long checklist of things to make sure of. Mr. Flickerman promised that I'd have it down in no time, but I can't imagine keeping all of this straight in my head.

At one, I go to the mayor's house and practice introducing myself as "Euphemia Trinket," only to be greeted by a cheerful, "Hello, Effie!"

I blink. "Mr. Undersee? I thought you were - "

"Oh, I just haven't found anyone else to take over grounds keeping yet. They just appointed me a month ago. Come in. Meet my wife…"

So, before I can correct my name, I'm led deep into the mayor's house, to a little nursery where a thin woman with light brown hair is rocking a swaddled baby. Something about her seems very familiar, but I can't place it for the life of me. Her name is Kay. The baby's name is Madge.

"You won't call her, will you?" Kay asks dully. "They called my sister. Maysilee Donner."

That name, I remember. Haymitch's ally. His true love, if you ask the Games fans, though Miss Meadowbrook says it's not true, and he really loved some other girl. I remember watching them on television, and on video on the way out here, huddled under a blanket together. I remember being very upset when she died. I got in some trouble for how upset I was. That was when my parents got me into Capitol Dreams, so that I wouldn't be so upset anymore.

That must be why Mrs. Undersee seems familiar, though the tired, beaten looking woman in the rocking chair doesn't have much in common with the feisty tribute I remember.

I can't promise never to call the baby's name. I don't have any control over what will come out of the reaping balls. But I do tell her that Madge is beautiful and sweet, and that's very true.

Kay Undersee grabs my arm as I start to leave. "Please never say her name again. Please."

I nod.

When I get out to the platform, Merle Undersee is testing the sound system, and Haymitch is trying to get up the stairs, without any noticeable success. I go down and help him up to the stage. He's clean and dressed properly, at least. I'll have to get him de-toxed on the train.

I spend most of the introduction wringing my hands. I'll be on national television, live, and I'm suddenly not even sure that my wig is on straight. If I start patting at it, it will be worse.

Finally, the mayor says, "And now, may I introduce, with great pleasure, our new escort, Effie Trinket!"

I stand up. It's too late to correct him now. Maybe next year.

I pull out the card where my speech is written. Mr. Flickerman _also_ says that I'll have this down pat soon, but I don't believe him. I feel like the air is being sucked out of my lungs. The town's children are gathered in their roped off areas by age, dressed up, but looking frightened and sullen.

_They all die, you know._

The reaping balls seem very large beside me. They're filled with innocuous looking slips of paper.

_They don't come back. You're calling them to die._

But if I stumble here, I'll be fired for sure, and what good would it do, anyway? At least it's only two, a lot fewer than would be dead in a war, and one of them has a chance to live in one of those big houses around the Victors' green.

I smile. "Welcome," I say, looking down at my card. "Welcome to the Fifty-ninth annual Hunger Games! It's time to choose this year's representatives from District Twelve. May the odds be ever in your favor!" There is no applause at the Games motto. They always show applause on television. It must be edited in later. I smile as widely as I can and go to the girls' reaping ball. My hand is shaking, and I force it to stop. "Ladies first!"

I draw out the first of the names I'll call - Babra Kennedy. A thin blond girl of fifteen comes up onto the stage. She has a spray of little freckles on her nose, and as I watch, I see a tear cling to her eyelashes. I put my card in my pocket and take her hand. I hold it while I reach for the boy's name. Trillium Morrison. He's about my age, a huge, broad-shouldered boy with black hair and striking gray eyes. His hand is covered with cold sweat when I take it, but I don't let go.

"Your tributes from District Twelve!" I announce. "Babra Kennedy and Trillium Morrison!"

There is dutiful applause now.

We lead the children inside. Trillium manages a smile in my direction. Babra won't let go of my hand until I get her settled in the shabby little parlor where her family will visit her. I finally let go when she's on the couch, but she grabs at me again.

"Please, stay!"

"Your family will be here soon," I tell her. "You'll want to be strong for them."

"Please don't leave me alone!"

I'm not supposed to be here with the families. That's definitely not on my list of duties. I'm supposed to be by Haymitch's side, helping him get ready.

I say, "Okay," and I stay until Babra's family comes. They hold her, and glare at me.

I go downstairs to the main hall, where Haymitch is sitting in the shadows under the stairs.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I know I should have been here right away, but the girl - "

"That's where you belong," he says. He leans forward into the light, the line of the stair-shadow now cutting diagonally down over his ear. "They outrank me. You did what you were supposed to do."

"Do you want me to go back, in case she needs me after her family leaves?"

"Let it be for now. She seems willing to call if she needs you. I don't know how she ended up in there. She's town, and her parents haven't done anything. Why did you call her?"

"Because her name was on the slip pulled."

"Really?"

"Yes. I promise, I wasn't even _asked_ to do anything else."

"No. No, I guess not. Nothing's happening this year."

I sigh. The other escorts have told me what the district people believe, about punitive reapings. None of the ones I talked to have ever been asked to skew the drawing either, but, looking at Haymitch, I have a feeling nothing I say will change his mind, anyway. "Do _you_ need anything?" I ask him. "Something to help you…"

"…sober up?" He shakes his head. "No. That thing on the stairs was the last of it. Just head-spins. I didn't drink enough last night. It's already wearing off."

"Maybe you should consider being sober for the reaping."

"I consider it every year," he says. "Very briefly."

"They'll need you in better shape - "

"I _always_ sober up in the Capitol, at least until" - he smiles bitterly - "until my duties have been discharged."

The door opens. I expect it to be one of the families, looking for Haymitch. I imagine that they all want to talk to the mentor.

But it's a Games Security officer.

"Haymitch Abernathy," she says.

He looks up dully. "Yeah?"

"You'll accompany me to the train now, and report for questioning."

"Not until I know the families don't need me."

The officer drags him up rudely, ignoring my protest. "The order was to bring you immediately."

"What for?"

"For questioning in the murder of Ausonius Glass."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**  
"Trill Morrison," the boy says, extending his hand and giving me what I think he imagines as a cocky smile.

I shake his hand. "Hello, Trill, it's nice to meet you."

"And you. You're a lot prettier than the last escort."

I bite my tongue. The Peacekeepers have forbidden me to discuss Glass's death - they don't intend to announce it until the suspect is in custody; until then, they'll say he's "retired" - but it's an awkward thing to think about. I decide not to think about it. "Thank you very much, Trill."

"How can you flirt with her?" Babra asks.

"Look at her. She's pretty."

"How can you flirt with _anyone_ when we're on our way to die?"

"Because I'm not going to have many more chances?"

I shake my head. "This won't do at _all_. You both have to stop thinking like that. Mr. Abernathy and I will do everything we can for both of you."

"Where is he?" Trill asks.

"He had to talk to some people from the Games," I tell him. "He'll be there for you, don't worry - "

"In case we need a drink?"

"He'll sober up for you," I say. I hope that this is true. He says it's true, and that's all I have to go on. I barely saw him last year before he lost his tributes. Babra and Trill are looking at me hungrily, seeking some kind of structure. I'd guessed that Haymitch would be talking to them most of the way. I have a lot of hours to fill. "Meanwhile," I try, "why don't we have supper and watch the rest of the reapings?"

"Are they still mandatory viewing even though we have to _be_ there?" Babra asks.

"I'm not sure, but it might be a good idea."

"Know who we're up against," Trill says. "Right. I think I'd feel better."

I guess they both know as well as I do that we have a lot of hours to fill, because there are only a few protests. I get them to their private quarters to change out of their District clothes and into something a little more appropriate, then lead them to the dining car, where they've set out a nice luncheon. Babra seems to know her way around the silverware, but Trill just starts grabbing at things with his fingers. I'm going to have to do something about that - it will disgust any sponsor who happens to watch candid footage - but I decide to wait until after we watch the reapings.

Districts One and Two are the usual routine of volunteers and counter-volunteers. According to the manual Caesar gave me, there's a fairly complex procedure to follow, but he said that, in Twelve, I wasn't likely to see much use of it, so I didn't read it very carefully. I've never been able to pick it up from the airings, which only show a few people shouting "I volunteer," followed by one being brought up on stage. I know it's not that short - the District One reaping actually begins quite early in the morning, and it's only the final stage that's shown live. In District Three, I see their victors, Beetee and Wiress, looking nervously at a pair of skinny children, both frightened, that Vitranio has just called up. In District Four, no mention is made of the fact that the mayor has called the tributes. No mention of Glass is made at all, though I can see a lot more Peacekeepers in the frame than I am used to seeing.

Last year's victor from District Five, Tanager Lowe, looks nervous in her first year as mentor, and the two District Six mentors are quite clearly under the influence of something, even moreso than Haymitch. The children are starting to look alike. By the time we get to District Twelve, most of the country will no longer be paying attention. We'll have to do something to catch their eyes again at the parade.

Trill and Babra watch all of it, wide-eyed. She repeats the names several times after each reaping. He's pale, but seems to be trying to work it out. By the time it's over, they've made their way through half the food, and are both very quiet. We sit uncomfortably in the silence for a while, then, because someone has to say something, I say, "Now, the cameras will be on you all the time, so we should learn to eat properly - "

"Where's Haymitch?" Trill asks. "Shouldn't we be learning about strategy? What does he have to talk to them about for so long?"

"I'm not sure. But what I'm talking about is strategy, too - "

"Oh, right, I'm sure that knowing which of these forks I'm supposed to use is going to keep me alive," Babra says.

"Maybe which _knife_," Trill puts in. "Knives will be more useful than forks."

"I can't stab someone!"

"You better learn, or you're going to end up dead!"

"I'm going to end up dead, anyway! Did you see that boy from Two? He looks like he could break me in half!"

I stand up. "That's enough," I try, forcing a smile. "Now, I know you're nervous, but Haymitch will help you later, and I'm trying to help you now, with sponsors."

"Why would sponsors care about that?" Trill asks.

"People are moved to help people who… who know the rules." I sigh. "Let's try the basics, at least…"

It takes a while, but I finally get them to commit to learning how to at least avoid outright offense at the table. I even catch Babra having a little bit of fun trying to use a fish knife, though Trill - like boys everywhere, I suppose - makes a bit too much of a game of ripping out the bones. At one point, when the sun is setting bright red outside the train windows, I look up and see Haymitch standing at the door, but he's shooed past by a couple of security officers. The tributes don't notice it.

He still hasn't joined us when the schedule suggests the tributes should try to get some sleep - they have a big day tomorrow - so I bundle them off on my own. Babra seems much calmer now, and Trill is back to flirting with me. He asks if I'll come and tuck him in. I tell him I think he can handle that on his own.

Once they're in bed, I go up the train, looking for Haymitch. I find him in a room in the security area, but they're still questioning him. I don't know what they possibly think he could know. Ausonius Glass was murdered in District Four, and they know as well as I do that Haymitch was in District Twelve the whole time. If they don't, they can ask me; I can confirm that.

But they don't.

A guard spots me by the door and escorts me back to my quarters.

I can't sleep. At home, I'd take a pill to help, but I don't want to chance being fuzzy right now.

I've been lying awake for what seems forever - though the clock tells me that it's only been fifty-three minutes - when there's a knock at the door. There's no time to properly put on a wig, so I just grab a scarf to tie over my scars, pull on a robe, and go to the door of my sleeping car.

Haymitch is in the hall outside. He's dead sober, and it looks like he's been in a fight. His lip is swollen, and he has scabs on his knuckles. "You doing all right?" he asks me. "Are _they_?"

"They're nervous, of course," I tell him. "They want to talk to you."

"They promise I'll be able to mentor. But maybe not tomorrow. They only let me out now because _they_ wanted to sleep." He sits down on a little plush bench against the wall. "Just try and keep them calmed down. Etiquette or something, I guess."

"We did etiquette most of the way. I can keep that up tomorrow, and get them ready for the parade."

"What are they wearing?"

"I don't know. Glass worked it out with Lepidus and Atilia before he was transferred."

"Great. He just keeps on giving."

I sit down beside him. "Why are they questioning you? They have to know that you couldn't have done it."

"Of course they do. He was way down in District Four. It happened yesterday. I doubt even they could figure out a way that I could have a conversation with you and be down on the coast three hours later, with no trains running."

"Then why? And why did they hit you?"

He shrugs. "My fault. I'm an idiot. I threw the first punch." He sighs. He looks a lot older than twenty-five at the moment. "They're trying to say it was Gia. Pelagia Pepper, my first escort. That she put a trident through him, then signed her name on the body. Why would she do anything that stupid?"

"Maybe so they wouldn't blame anyone else?" I suggest. "I heard she did kill a Peacekeeper once."

"That was in self-defense. Or, well, I guess it was. It was the night she escaped. Anyway, Snow's always figured I know where she went. I _don't_. She's not that dumb."

"What if she's in Four and Glass recognized her? She would have spent time with him as an escort - Twelve and Seven were allies once…"

His glare stops me. I have heard things about Haymitch and his first escort. Medusa told me that they aren't true things, but the look on his face makes them _look_ true.

"Sorry," I say.

"It's okay. You didn't know her." He looks miserably across the hall. "They said if I don't tell them what I don't know, they'll do a genetic dragnet on all the women in District Four."

"That sounds unpleasant."

"Unpleasant. You have a knack for understatement, Euphemia."

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, and I can't think of anything to say. I consider the wisdom of putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, but I decide against it.

"They're not going to find her, anyway," he says out of the blue.

"If they test every woman…"

"You spend too much time with the Gamemakers. They always think they're the smartest guys in the room, and all of their little playthings are too dumb to see their tricks. But Gia's not."

"She's not in District Four?"

"Would _you_ be? Think about it - they know she got off the train near District Four. They can do a genetic dragnet if it suits them. So would you go to the most likely place it's possible to be, and then sign your name to a murder?" He snorts. "I bet Snow had it done himself. He's probably tired of cleaning up after his pet fanatic."

I look around. "You shouldn't talk like that, Haymitch. Someone could hear."

He laughs. "Right. I'm sure they'd all be real shocked."

"You _can't_ talk like that," I repeat. I feel a tight band coming around my chest, squeezing at my heart. "You just can't. It's not allowed."

He looks at me for a long time, then sighs. "Yeah. I guess I could get you in trouble if I talk sedition to you. And I need you not in trouble." He looks up at the ceiling. "You heard all that, right? She's a good little Capitol Dreamer."

"You really don't like Capitol Dreams, do you?"

"I really don't. Why do you?"

"Well… they're nice there," I say. "They aren't always nice anywhere else. Sometimes in school, the other children were… unkind."

"Yeah?"

I nod. "We were in a little debt trouble. I never had nice things. I had to save up for everything I did have. It was always second-rate."

"And they let you have nice things at Capitol Dreams."

"Sometimes. Mostly, they just helped me make what I did have look good, and they never…" I block out the image of the boys in the school hallway, yanking at my wig. I'd saved for weeks for it, to try and look like the rich girls. But they knew what I really was.

Haymitch looks at me with surprising keenness. "School was bad for you," he says.

"Yeah."

"That's why you really tested out." I nod. He rolls his eyes. "I actually know that song. Didn't know they sang it in the Capitol. Guess you could say that I tested out, too." He grins, and the extra years I noticed before seem to fade a little bit. He looks like the handsome boy who won nine years ago, albeit a little thick through the middle these days.

"I guess I won't complain about how hard my fashion final was."

"It'll probably be more useful to you than what I tested out on." He rubs his head. "They're going to take me back to questioning as soon as we get to the Capitol tomorrow," he says. "In Peacekeeper headquarters. I told them I need to get back to train my tributes. They didn't seem to care. I'll need you to keep an eye on them through the parade. If Glass had anything too crazy planned with Lepidus, try to get it toned down."

"Okay."

"And you may need to take some sponsor meetings for me, depending on how long they keep me. I usually have lunch with the Daughters of the Founding during prep. They've been good to Twelve."

"I know the Daughters. I worked with them on a monument clean-up. I can do that."

"I'm sorry you're getting this thrown at you your first year."

"I'll handle it."

He smiles. "Remind me to thank Caesar."

"I'll put it on your schedule."

This gets a quiet laugh. "Yeah, you better. I'll forget otherwise. I always forget stuff like that. My mother would be very annoyed."

"I've got your back."

He offers his hand. "Allies?"

The word - one I've only heard on television, among tributes - surprises me. I shake his hand. "Sure. Allies."

"Done."

I hold onto his hand a second longer than I should, and he doesn't make me let go, though I can tell he's uncomfortable. I pull my hand away. "In my capacity as ally - do you want to know about the other reapings?"

"Yeah, I guess I better. Let's watch them."

So I go back to the dining car, this time with Haymitch, and we watch the reapings again. I half expect him to take notes, but he doesn't. He pays very close attention to the reaping in Four (a girl named Keeva Magreary and a boy named Harris Greaves, though I have the impression it's not the tributes he's watching so carefully), and gets increasingly agitated as the roster goes through. He's closed off and grumpy again by the time it's over. I go back to bed.

By the time I get up, he's already got Trill and Babra at breakfast, and is trying to get through as much as he can.

"Shouldn't we be learning to use knives?" Trill asks as I come in. "You know… to fight with?"

"You'll have physical training for that. And you can't guarantee that you'll _get_ any special kind of weapon. I don't want you going near the Cornucopia -"

"I can handle the fight," Trill says.

"No, you can't. I'll get you what I can. But don't get into that fight."

"Where will we get weapons, though?" Babra asks. "If we can't get weapons there, then they'll just chase us down and kill us."

"Get out of there while they're too busy killing each other."

Trill frowns. "I'm not going to run away. You managed to get through the Cornucopia. You got away with a big bag."

"I was _lucky_. Do you get that at all? I ended up really near a bag, and everyone else was just a few steps too slow at coming to their senses. If I'd gone into the fight, you'd probably have a loaner from District Two as a mentor right now. Good morning, Effie. Euphemia."

I wave it off. I haven't had anything to help me wake up yet, and I don't have the energy to police what name anyone is using.

I eat my breakfast while Haymitch continues to argue with Trill about the Cornucopia. Babra comes and sits by me, and asks me what I think they'll put her in for the parade. I don't have an answer, but I do offer to do her hair and help her put on makeup for her arrival in the Capitol. There are almost always cameras at the trains, and, while the clothes she's picked out are quite pretty (she has a good eye), her unadorned face and the cloth headband she's wearing mark her as country.

Besides, it takes up the time, and seems to make her feel better. While I work, she tells me about the little grocery her parents own.

As soon as we pull into the Capitol, security leads Haymitch off the far side of the train, where the cameras won't catch him being taken to the Peacekeepers. I go out with the tributes, and ride with them to the Remake Center, where we meet Atilia and Lepidus. They're sent off to prep. I have to fight an urge to go with them and start fixing their hair. There's a new girl for that this year. Her name is Venia. I haven't met her yet.

"What are you doing with them?" I ask the stylists. "I know you worked it out with Glass…"

"The Naked Truth," Lepidus intones, putting his hands up and peering through a box he makes with his fingers, like he's seeing it on a screen. "Life is hard and unadorned in Twelve. So we thought we'd show how lean and tough it -"

"You're sending them down _naked_?" I ask. "Are you crazy?"

"It was Glass's plan. And a lot of the teams are doing it this year. Did you read _Chic_ last month? It's all about body honesty this season."

"Yes, and _Fashion Gab_ said that was ridiculous. So did _Capitol View_. No one is seriously going to be running around naked."

"But we don't have any costumes for them," Atilia says. "That would have had to be started weeks ago. Parade day can only be for fitting costumes and doing the alterations. We can't design a whole costume while they're in prep."

The panicked tightening in my chest comes back. If they go down naked, Haymitch will think _I_ let them, and I have the distinct impression that he wouldn't like it. "What about old costumes?" I ask. "Can we get them out of the tribute museum?"

"That's prohibited," Lepidus says. "We can't disturb historical artifacts."

"It'll be very artistic," Atilia assures me. "Handprints in coal dust to show the work of the district and -"

"Coal dust… we have coal dust."

"Yes."

"A lot of it?"

"Enough."

"Good. Use it as body paint. There was a picture… oh, fifty years ago, maybe? I saw it in fashion history. woman was naked, and they painted her with cosmetics enough that she looked like she was wearing clothes."

"But -"

"Just do it." I shake my head. "And give them something to cover themselves until they're well inside the chariot."

I see them give each other a look of long-suffering forbearance, but I don't have a chance to argue any further (and besides, I'm the escort - they should just do it). A runner from Capitol Dreams who looks vaguely familiar from other events rushes over and tells me that the Daughters of the Founding have invited Haymitch to their yearly luncheon.

He obviously can't go, so I take five minutes to clean up, and go in his stead. They seem disappointed not to have him. From the sound of it, he charms their socks off every year, and they adore him. But after a little while, they seem happy enough to make a fuss over me instead. They show me pictures of their pets and their houses. None of them are married or have children. I talk to them about all the monuments they sponsor. "And speaking of sponsorships," I say, earning a fond smile at the awkward segue, "can I tell you a little bit about our tributes, Trill and Babra…?"

They give their usual amounts, and urge me to give Haymitch their best.

"You would just be _adorable_ for him, dear," Ulpia Jakes tells me. "He's such a lonely young man. A nice girl like you would do him a world of good."

"We're only professionally involved," I say. "I'm a little young for him."

"That just needs a little nudge, dear."

I finish up and get back to the Remake Center just as the kids are getting out . They've been smeared with a good deal of coal dust, but I can still tell that they're naked. Babra is nearly in tears, crouched on the chariot with her arms covering everything she can get them to cover. Trill is stalking around, carrying a clipboard over the relevant bits, though they're in full view from the back.

"Is this real?" he asks me.

"I'm sorry. I hoped the dust would cover more."

"Yeah, well… it doesn't. I'm going to be standing there on national television flapping in the breeze."

"I'm sorry -"

He shakes his head. "I know it's not your fault. But can't you _do_ something?"

I go back to Lepidus, who's trying to anoint the chariot itself with coal dust, much to the annoyance of the production assistant charged with keeping it sparkling.

"Coal comes in bags, doesn't it?" I ask.

"What?"

"Couldn't you… grab a coal sack and cut a couple of holes in it? Make it a tunic? You could say it represents… ingenuity. The ingenuity born of necessity. Right?"

"I am not sending them out there dressed in burlap sacks."

"You're sending them out _naked_. It doesn't exactly show off your skill as a stylist."

"Style and fashion are related, my dear, but they aren't the same thing. They look stylish now, with or without clothes…"

"Their parents are watching."

"So are their potential sponsors," Atilia cuts in. "And I think their parents wouldn't want you risking sponsorships by sending them out looking like a bad joke about abject poverty."

I can't argue with that. It's true. I go to them.

"I'm sorry," I say. "There's nothing more we can do at this point. Just… stand close to the front of the chariot and… keep your legs together."

I get them arranged as modestly as I can in the chariot, then tell the skin crew to give them one more coat of dust. I spread Babra's pretty blonde hair down over her breasts. It's the best I can do. But I think I _will_ start looking for a new stylist team. They never should have let Glass talk them into this.

Thinking of Glass, I glance over at the District Four team. Neither of their mentors is here. I'm guessing that they're in the same sort of meetings Haymitch is in. I recognize a very young man I knew from Capitol Dreams tentatively making suggestions to the stylists. Luckily, their old escort didn't leave them with a disaster. They're wearing costumes made of shells. The girl looks like she actually likes it. The boy looks bored with everything.

Runners come through and instruct everyone to get lined up. I try to convince Trill and Babra to smile and be friendly, but I think I'll be lucky if either one of them even looks up to meet the camera's view.

Atilia is right about the sponsors, but I can't help thinking that the parents in District Twelve are going to be furious, and that the first person they'll blame for it is me.

The parade has already started when Haymitch runs into the Remake Center. He looks up at the screen with horror when he sees his tributes, but at least he doesn't fume at _me_.

After the parade, I give both kids long smocks from the hairdressing stations, and we all go to the Training Center together. They go to their rooms, and come back wearing clothes that cover them from ankle to chin. We watch the parade recaps. They did make a splash. The body painting with coal dust is praised to the rafters as "daring" and "provocative." Word on the street about it is somewhat less cerebral, but still complimentary.

They both look ashamed, and head off to bed without eating much of the dinner that's been set out for them.

Haymitch continues to be pulled away at inconvenient times throughout the training. I meet with a lot of sponsors, and work most of Haymitch's usual alliances. Chaff Leary from Eleven fumes about the investigation, and what he calls the deliberate targeting of Pelagia Pepper's beloved districts (Twelve, Four, and Seven… Blight isn't present for most of training, either). "They want to smoke her out," he theorizes. "That's all this is about."

If that's the plan, it doesn't work. She doesn't surface, and by the end of training, the Peacekeepers have apparently run out of things to question the mentors about, as they all return to work. Either that, or Caesar, who's been fuming all over Games Headquarters, finally got his way.

The kids are able to get modestly decent scores - Babra gets a seven, and Trill a six - and Haymitch and I spend the next day prepping them for interviews. I help them learn to move around fully clothed and in decent shoes; he goes over their interview strategies. They've both gotten sullen at the lack of time for mentoring, and I spend as much time as I can cheering them up.

Lepidus managed to re-think the interview costumes, which were originally sheer to the point of non-existence. Now, the original dress for Babra is just a diaphanous robe over a sparkly black jumpsuit, and Trill is wearing a perfectly normal suit.

Games workers sweep them toward the stage, and Haymitch and I are herded down to the Games personnel area. We sit together, but we don't talk. He's gone as sullen as they have.

The lights on the audience go down, and the Games fanfare begins.

"Ladies and gentlemen," an announcer calls out jovially, "give a big hand to your host for the Fifty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games, CAESAR FLICKERMAN!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**  
"Chaff Leary," Haymitch says, pointing at the man who is now sitting on my other side as Caesar does his opening riff. "Chaff, this is Effie… _Euphemia_ Trinket. New escort. Try not to offend her too much. Turns out she's actually pretty good, and I don't want her to run off."

I shake Chaff's single hand, which he has to twist around in his seat to offer. "Nice to meet you," I say. "And I'm really not that easy to offend."

Haymitch grins. "Don't challenge him like that, Effie. He'll find a way." He winces. "Euphemia. Sorry."

Chaff laughs. "Honey, I think you best get used to 'Effie.' He's never going to remember the other one drunk. Besides, 'Effie' suits you."

He is shushed by a passing security guard, and we settle in for the interviews. Before last year, I would have spent this time deciding who I liked best. In Haymitch's year, I liked his ally, Maysilee, best. I loved her pretty hair, and her dress, and the way she talked about everyone trying to get along. I didn't think much of Haymitch (other than that he was very good-looking, which didn't mean much to me at nine) until he was actually in the arena, and really, not until Maysilee caught up with him. I think that's when he started growing on everyone. At least he was never one of the screamers. I've never liked the ones who do what the District One boy is doing now - flexing his muscles and screaming at the top of his lungs about how fit and ready he is.

The District Two tributes are more or less the same - both of them - and the girl from Three makes an attempt at a brag. The boy doesn't bother. He just lets Caesar guide him into talking about his favorite inventions.

When Caesar moves on to the tributes from Four, I see Haymitch tense up and glance at the security guards, but I can't see any reason for it. Regardless, both the girl and the boy from Four are tensing up as well, and so is Mags Donovan, who's sitting a row ahead of us.

The girl, Fanning Kavanagh, practically jumps when Caesar leads her out. She manages a brittle smile, and tells everyone how much she loves going to the beach, and how greatly she's been enjoying the generosity of the Capitol since she got here.

The boy, Harris Greaves, comes next.

"Well, Harris," Caesar says, "an eleven… quite a score. I'm sure everyone's curious!"

"I'm sure they are," Harris says coolly. "And I assure everyone, once I get into the arena, you'll see why I got it. But I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

There's a kind of nervous laughter in the audience. The words sound like a joke, but Harris's face and tone don't seem to match them.

"Oh-ho!" Caesar cries, waggling his eyebrows. "Surprises in store… then what _shall_ we talk about?..."

Caesar does most of the talking. Harris glares out at the audience, answering Caesar's questions about his home life with only the briefest of comments. I doubt he'll get many sponsors out of this. Caesar seems glad to be done with him and move on to District Five, where he fusses over a nervous redheaded girl named Athena Burke. Back in his seat, Harris Greaves continues to stare. Judging by what's on the screens around us, the television audience isn't seeing much of him at all.

I have mostly forgotten about him by the time we get to District Eleven, where the girl, Daylily, is a simply beautiful thing who barely has to say a word to be guaranteed a whole crowd of sponsors. Chaff's boy, Planter Maye, tries his best to be funny. It's his only chance for sponsors - he's a skinny, bucktoothed boy of thirteen wearing a pair of thick glasses. He does pretty well.

Caesar reaches Babra, and I look around the audience. Many of them are checking their watches, and I see two women playing a discreet game on their handhelds a few sections over. No one is watching. I realize that they almost never are by the time District Twelve comes around.

"Look at you!" Caesar says, leading her forward into the light, where the pretty blue dress we found for her glimmers. "Aren't you beautiful!"

"I feel prettier with clothes on," she says. "That's for sure. I've never been so embarrassed in my life!"

Caesar puts a protective arm around her. "Now, everyone knows you didn't make up that parade costume - or lack thereof." He looks to the audience. "Babra doesn't have anything to be embarrassed about, does she?"

The audience cheers on this implicit command.

"See?" he says. "You're fine. Now, I understand your family has a grocery store. We've only had a few other merchants from your district here to talk to us…"

Babra warms to this topic fairly quickly, talking about her store, and how nice it's been to get to know Trill, as the miners and merchants apparently haven't had much chance to know each other at home. I think about the miner turning me away from part of the town, and I wonder just how bad it is. I should ask Haymitch, if I remember.

"And finally - last but not least - Trillium Morrison!"

Trill swaggers forward. "Hi, Caesar," he says. "Most people call me Trill."

"Ah, I stand corrected. So tell me, Trill - you've been listening to all the others for a while now. What is it that you'll bring to the arena that you haven't already heard about?"

Trill thinks about it for a minute - or pretends to - then says, "Desire."

"Desire?"

"I want to get through the arena and get a kiss from our pretty new escort, Effie Trinket." He grins wickedly, and suddenly, my face is all over the big screens. I see Haymitch snickering.

He coached Trill. He _knew_ he was going to say that.

"Well," Caesar says, as the camera cuts back to him, "I'd have to say that is certainly a motivational goal."

"What can I say?" Trill pats his chest and bats his eyelashes. "I'm a romantic at heart."

Now Chaff is snickering as well, and there's laughter through the audience, and in my head, I hear the boys in the hall at school laughing at me when I came through the doors in my new clothes and my new wig. I see them jeering. It wasn't just that day. I heard their laughter all the way through school. They would always make horrible declarations about how they just couldn't live without me, and would just die right then if I didn't "loosen up" for them. I thought I was done with it.

I force myself to continue smiling, in case the cameras come back. Beside me, I see Haymitch looking at me sharply, no longer laughing.

Trill finishes up, and Caesar does his closing patter.

Haymitch takes my arm just above my elbow and whispers, "You okay? You look spooked."

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

He looks at me steadily, and something tells me that he doesn't believe me for a second. His eyes, which are even sharp and lively when he's drunk, are narrowed and bright. "Effie, you need to tell me if something's wrong. But don't tell Trill."

"I know. It's okay."

He nods and we make our way through the crowd, back into the training center, where Babra and Trill are waiting for us. We take the elevator up with the District Eleven team. No one really talks on the way, though Daylily smiles awkwardly at Babra and says, "Well… um… see you tomorrow?"

Babra swallows hard. "Hopefully not too closely."

"Yeah. That."

They exit into their apartment.

We go up to the last floor.

The kids are nervous now, so Haymitch and I distract them as much as possible. We don't discuss this. He mentors them intensively and technically, and I try to tempt them with some rich desserts. Neither approach is terribly successful, but when it comes time for them to go to bed, they at least seem a little less keyed up.

Once they're down for the night, Haymitch turns to me. "We won't see them tomorrow morning," he says. "And you'll have an early meeting. The escorts almost always do. You don't need to stay here anymore. You can go back to wherever you live."

"You want me to leave?"

"I want you to get some rest." He sits down. "It's going to be bad tomorrow, Effie. You know that, right? You're not going to have to worry about Trill demanding his kiss."

"If he makes it through, he'll get one."

"No." He points to a chair. "Effie, sit down."

I take a seat.

He leans across and takes my hands. "He's not going to make it. I can't talk him out of the damned Cornucopia, and he's not going to make it through there."

"Haymitch - "

"But even if he does, it's not your job to dole out kisses or anything else. Trill knows it, too. You're our escort. You can kiss anyone you feel like , but you're not anyone's prize. You get that, right? I mean, no one's been telling you anything else, have they?"

"No. I just…"

"It was supposed to be a joke. Just sort of making him seem normal to everyone… a boy with a crush on the pretty girl. I didn't think you'd take it seriously. You want to tell me what that was about?"

"Nothing," I say. "I just don't like being laughed at. I know, it's stupid."

"No. It's not." He reaches up and rubs his head. "I'm afraid you're on the wrong team if you don't want to be laughed at, though. They've been on me since my victory tour, and you just got stuck with me."

"Maybe if we could get your image cleaned up a little…"

"Yeah. That'll happen." He shakes his head. "It's too late for that, Effie. It's been too late for that for a long time now. But thanks. I'll try and keep it directed away from you."

I sit there across from him for a few minutes, then he seems to realize for the first time that he's holding my hands. He lets go and smiles sheepishly.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" I ask.

He nods. "You should go home. I'll see you tomorrow." We get up, and he walks me to the elevator. "It's going to be ugly," he says again as I step into it. "I'll probably be pretty ugly, too. I apologize in advance."

I push the button for the door to close, but he's leaning on it. I think for a minute that he means to kiss me, which is crazy - he's seven years older than I am and quite famous - but he doesn't. He just steps back and lets the door close. I don't know whether I'm disappointed or relieved.

The training center itself is quiet tonight, as the tributes try to rest, and the rest of the buildings in Games Headquarters, while lit up and full, are just busy with the last stages of work before the Games begin.

When I cross out of Games Headquarters and into the city, everything changes.

You never have to go far to find a party in the Capitol, but during the Games, the whole city is a party. The streetlights are sparkling, and people spill out of the clubs, dancing to music so fast and cheerful that it's hard not to dance. Vendors line the sidewalks with all kinds of memorabilia. Daylily from Eleven has inspired large, lit-up hair decorations shaped like the flower she was named for. There are headbands with floppy springs on them showing the wearers' favored districts, and tee shirts with the tributes pictures on them. I see someone wearing a black shirt with blond hair stenciled in over the breasts, and a giant "12" between them.

There's betting going on, and it's spilled over into more innocent kinds of betting - dice and cards have come out, and footraces are being contested by drunken revelers.

In the distance, at the lakeshore, I can see Bacchus Pleasure Park, its wheels and rides lit up against the blackness of the water beyond. I was there two years ago with Capitol Dreams, handing out Stay-Awake fizzy candies so people could keep the party up. There were face painters and clowns and an amazing dance team that did numbers representing every district. I wanted so badly to be one of them, but I don't think I'd have really been comfortable dressed in their skimpy costumes, shaking my breasts at strangers.

But they were so _pretty_.

I let my feet carry me through the city. I'm never afraid out on the streets like this. Strangers mostly ignore me, even if my face _was_ on television a few hours ago. My wig isn't that unusual, and my makeup is up-to-date, so everyone is wearing it. I could blend in at any of the clubs, but I know Haymitch wants me to get some rest, so I just weave through the parties, catching bits and pieces, on my way home.

At Club Caligula, there are naked people dancing outside, covered in coal dust. They seem happier about it than Trill and Babra were. At the Forum - the big outdoor club only bounded from the street by netting and armed guards - there's a light show, and, as I pass, they start playing a dance version of the Games fanfare. I go into the park that goes around City Center, where the festivities are more family oriented, and I see children enjoying their late night up, racing each other around crazily and playing tag with toy swords. Parents watch indulgently, and I think about Haymitch telling me that it will be ugly tomorrow, that Trill will never collect his kiss.

I stop walking. I can't start thinking that way. The Games are played for a reason. If it weren't for the Games, there would be a lot more dead children. They _should_ be celebrated. They stopped thousands more deaths from happening, and they remind us all of how horrible the war was.

I swallow hard and go sit in a crowd of parents who are watching their children fondly. I wonder where _my_ parents are. I think my father decided to re-contract with someone younger and have another child, but I haven't seen him for a few years. I'm not sure if it ever happened. Last I knew, my mother was working at a shop in the fashion district, still trying to pay off the bills she ran up, but I haven't seen her since I moved into the Capitol Dreams compound. I should call her.

"Are you all right?" a woman says beside me. "You look a little sick."

"I'm fine, really."

"We're going to put on some music in a few minutes. Do you want to dance?"

I shake my head. "No - I really should get home."

But I stay there for a little while, watching the party. Everyone's having fun. A little blond girl is pretending to be Babra, and she's decided that the high score she got was for being a good shot. She is pretending to fire things from a slingshot while the others laugh.

I wait until the odd feeling passes, then move on.

The Dreams compound is on the far side of the park, and the party is going on here as much as anywhere else, though a lot of people are out working the clubs and parks. Once the Games are over, I'll look for a place of my own, so someone else who's in money trouble can have my bed, but everything happened so fast that I didn't have time before I left. I go up to the third floor, which I share with five other girls. Miss Meadowbrook is our house mother, and she's the only one home when I get there.

"Euphemia!" she says when I come in, and I've been "Effie" so constantly over the last few days that I almost forget to answer. She comes over, smiling widely. "Oh, you looked so pretty on television tonight. I imagine you were a little nervous."

I let her lead me to the kitchen table, where she pours me a cup of tea. "It was all right," I tell her.

"Have you really been kissing young Trillium?"

I shake my head. "Haymitch thinks I won't be doing it at all."

"Haymitch is a sourpuss." She smiles. "How is he? Other than being sour, of course." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "I wish we could get him to cheer up a little bit. I think he could be happy if he'd let himself. Is he still drinking too much, or is that just a rumor?"

"He was pretty drunk the day before the reaping," I tell her, though I feel inclined to add, "but he sobered up right away when the mentoring started. He's sober for the tributes."

"That sounds right." She takes a sip of her own tea. "Do you know, he actually had moral qualms about taking a little something for himself - me - because it might cost one sponsorship?"

"I don't understand."

"If he was with me, a sponsorship would look like a payment, so he had to decide whether he wanted me or my money. It was quite a scandal that year - some of the victors trading… well, best left behind. But there are rules. I still can't sponsor District Twelve, at least until people forget, if you were thinking of asking."

I'm not sure that anyone other than Miss Meadowbrook - Haymitch included - remembers, but I don't correct her. The public probably thinks of her more with Avitus Ames, the singer she was married to for about forty-eight hours two years ago, and even that's sort of a while back. She never talks about that, just Haymitch, though that's probably just because of my assignment. It's not like she talked about him all the time before I ended up on the District Twelve team.

"It's probably better you didn't get that kiss," she muses.

"What?" I look up, wondering if I somehow let slip that I thought Haymitch might kiss me before I left, but she just has a kind of faraway look on her face. One of the other girls, Verina Dorne, says that Miss Meadowbrook is a "high attention case," and frequently needs to be taken on outings to prevent her lapses into maudlin thoughts. We all take our turns.

"The boy is cute," she says, coming up with a smile, and I realize that she's talking about Trill, "but it's better not to get involved with district boys. I suppose you could always just play with them, but…." She sighs. "They take playing very seriously, and you can end up hurting them. There's no reason to do that."

"What if I were serious?"

She looks at me with vague interest. "About a district boy? Where would it _go_, Euphemia? Do you imagine there would be some long, happily-ever-after life? They can't move here, and of course, you wouldn't want to go there. And if there were children…" She goes very quiet, then the smile comes back. "Well, you wouldn't want to pull your own children's names out of the reaping balls, would you? Because Capitol citizenship has to come from both parents." She shudders theatrically. "Imagine that! The child of a Capitol citizen in the Games. That's hardly what they're for!" She laughs. "Oh, listen to me, going on about things that aren't going to happen. You know better than that. Of all my girls, you're the last I'd expect to get in _that_ sort of trouble."

"Probably true," I say. "Would you like to go downstairs and see who's back from the park? It looked like Zeno and Leontia had a dance contest started when I came through."

"Oh, that sounds fun! Why didn't you join them?"

"I was going to get some rest. I told Haymitch I would. But I'm not very sleepy, really. And you look like you could use some cheering up."

"Oh, don't let the sourpuss spoil the party for you. He's a dear, but my heavens, he could make a meadowlark mope." She opens her purse and takes out a few pills. I know at least one of them is for staying awake. I think the others are for her mood. She gulps them down with her cooling tea and offers me two of them. "They'll get you out of that mopey place in your head," she says. "And you'll be fine for work in the morning."

I take them. I'm not sure what they are, but I am sure that Miss Meadowbrook isn't out to hurt me, and that _she_ knows exactly what they are.

Half an hour later, I'm happy again, and dancing with my friends, and, as promised, in the morning, I wake up on time, feeling much better - _clearer_ - than I have for days.

I paint my face and put on a bright yellow wig and a pretty green dress that a designer sent over for me. It's made from preserved spinach leaves. Clothes made from food are supposedly going to be big over the next few months. It's a big hit at the escorts' meeting.

Haymitch is nonplussed by it when I get to the Viewing Center just before ten, and Chaff looks actively annoyed, muttering about a waste of a harvest, but I let it wash over me. There's no time for either of them to get any further with their commentary. The Games are about to begin.

"Are you ready to take sponsor calls?" Haymitch asks.

"I have the book. I was taking them for days, remember?"

"Right." He frowns. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing at all!"

He sighs, then says, "Okay. You seem alert enough. If they make it past the Cornucopia, the calls will start coming. I've been looking through the supply book. From the looks of it, it's going to be wet out there. I'm looking at some protective plastic bags for whatever supplies they can get. And maybe their feet, depending on what the uniforms are. They're pricey, but we're almost there. Try to get as much as you can."

I rearrange the call area to put things in easier reach for me. "On it," I promise, and give him my best smile. "I told you - I've got your back."

He rubs his head. "Yeah. You do. I guess that's what counts."

The Games fanfare blares over the sound system, and we all turn to the big screen, where the broadcast that will go out to the public plays out. Around it, hundreds of dark little screens are waiting to go live with their views of the arena.

On the screen, the producers have linked together scenes from all of the previous Games. I see a flash of Mags with her slingshot, and Beetee with his wires. I see Faraday Sykes and Brutus Emmett. I see Haymitch laughing atop a cliff (beside me, he grinds his teeth).

All of this fades to a dark room, and a hazy gray light. A few tables down, someone identifies the camera as being on one of Woof's District Eight tributes.

Claudius Templesmith voices over the rise up into the arena. The hazy light is all we see, even as the camera pans. The Cornucopia is lit with golden light, but the camera sees the tributes only as hazy dark forms in the fog. Thin rills of water run through deep mud all around, and trees with thick, vine-like leaves trail down.

"A swamp," Seeder says. "How are they supposed to run?"

But they try.

When the countdown ends, and the gong sounds, they rush for the Cornucopia like they always do.

Trill doesn't even make it halfway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**  
Trill is between the girl from One and the boy from Four, and as soon as the gong sounds, he makes a break for the Cornucopia. I don't know if he's a good runner at home or not, but here, it's useless. The mud and thin rivulets of water make running difficult, if not impossible. The ones actually making progress toward the Cornucopia seem to have lucked into fairly solid ground. Trill's foot sinks into the mud and he's thrown forward.

The boy from Four, Harris, rushes over, turns his face down, and holds him under the muddy water until he's still.

I stare at his body, willing him to get up, silently promising him any kisses he wants, but he stays down.

He's not the only one down. I don't know the order, but there are already losses in District Nine and District Six. A group is converging on the Cornucopia now, which is up on a semi-dry hillock, and the battle begins.

Babra is not in that group. I check her screen. She did exactly what Haymitch told her - she jumped backward off her platform and is moving as quickly as she can toward the shadows. The tributes' uniforms this year seem to be some kind of body length swimsuits, topped off by rain slickers. Both are dark green and gray camouflage. Babra is already soaked despite the nominal protection, and she's rubbing her arms for warmth.

I look at Trill's screen again.

He's still down.

I shake the screen.

Haymitch puts his hand over mine. "He's gone, Effie."

I shake my head. "It's just the beginning…"

"Not for Trill."

"No…"

"Effie, I told you what would happen. This is what happens every year. This is what the Games are."

I stare at the screen. I think about Trill flirting with me on the train.

"We still have to watch out for Babra."

I nod. Take a deep breath.

"Do you want me to watch her while you call Trill's family?"

"I'm going to wait until the official count is through. Just in case he's only unconscious. But he's not. I want to make sure she's away clean, too."

The phone rings, and I grab it. Anything to not look at Trill face down in the mud. I turn on the video connection. There's an older lady there, holding a cute little dog. The dog is wearing a little cap that has the number twelve on it in sparkly rhinestones.

"Hello," I say, trying to keep my voice perky and my smile sharp. "I'm Euphemia Trinket, District Twelve. Can I help you?"

"Oh, you poor thing, that boy was your friend wasn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am. Trill was a good boy."

She pats the dog. "Well, I'm Ancharia King, and Popples and I would very much like to help the girl out. What do you need that I can help with?"

I look up at the screen. Babra is on the main screen now, stuck at an expanse of dirty water, trying to hide in the tree line. "Well, ma'am, she's going to need to keep her provisions as dry as she can, and she'll need a water purifier, too. Do you think you could help us get her a bag to keep her things in? They're pricey, but we have other sponsors helping out…"

I get a solid donation out of Ancharia King, and I feel better. I decide to work down a list of names of potential sponsors that Haymitch has jotted down at the back of the book. It seems like the right thing to do.

By the time they start sounding the cannon for the battle at the Cornucopia, I've secured enough money to get Babra a bag and some water purifying tablets (along with a bottle), and Haymitch has directed me to start working toward a waterproof sleeping bag. Babra herself has found a log, and is using it as a float to paddle herself along in the shallow water behind a curtain of vines. After capsizing several times, her long, pretty hair is stuck to her back in muddy clumps.

"It looks like the vegetation is mostly edible," he says. "Probably a few poisonous things to watch out for, but she did all right at plant recognition. Food should be okay. And no one seems to be convulsing from the water, so with the purifier, she should be okay there, too."

I nod. My hands are shaking. I didn't notice that. Trill's screen is dark. I can't see him in the mud anymore. They're probably already bringing him up to the hover craft.

"I need to call the Morrisons," Haymitch says. "Are you okay on your own? Keep an eye on the public screen, so you'll know what the sponsors are talking about."

"I'm fine."

He looks at me doubtfully for a minute, then sighs. "I guess you are. You're good at this. But you forgot to put it on my schedule to thank Caesar. I'm glad you're here, Effie." He stands to go, then turns back. "I'm not one to talk, but… during the Games, could you not take whatever you took before you came in?"

"It was just a mood adjustor. Miss Meadowbrook gave it to me."

"I wish she'd stop adjusting her mood, too. But I don't need her here. I do need you. I'd rather have you in a bad mood and all the way here than checked out. All of this is real, Effie. I need you to remember that."

"Okay."

He nods and goes to the bank of phone booths to place his call to District Twelve.

I turn my attention to the public screen, though I keep Babra's screen where I can see it as well. (She's investigating the parachute we sent her and purifying some water.) On the main screen, the inner district kids are sheltering inside the Cornucopia, sorting out the spoils. The girl from District Four didn't make it. She was attacked by a mutt with large teeth after the battle ended, while I was on the phone with sponsors. If Harris is in pain over this - or over drowning Trill in cold blood - it doesn't show. He is sitting on top of an empty crate, going through a pile of weapons.

"What _is_ this?" the girl from Two asks, scraping muck off her boots and tossing it down in disgust. The caption identifies her as Lucia.

"It's a swamp," Harris says. "It's different from the one we have down by the coast, but same idea. You want to spread your weight out as much as you can, or you can sink in the mud. And check depths." He sighs. "And watch for the gators."

"The whats?"

"The thing that got Fanning. It's a mutt version, but it's still a gator. I'd guess there are some nasty bugs around here, too."

"How are we going to get around?" Lucia asks. "They'll hear us coming - you either splash or squelch around here."

"Can you swim?"

Most of them can. Harris announces that their strategy will be to find deep water, and swim as silently as possible to confront enemies. "They'll be on dry enough ground that they'll hear us when we come up, but we'll try to come up close enough that they can't run. And you guys are going to get some practice before we raid. You looked like crap getting here."

The District One boy, Tourmaline, stands up and moves directly into Harris's space. "I don't know. You've about outlived your usefulness already. Thanks for the advice. But you're not the general."

Harris raises his legs and kicks Tourmaline in the abdomen without too much force, just pushing him away. "You think I'm the only one who knows how to handle a swamp? I guarantee they've got them in Eleven, and I'd be willing to bet the lumberjacks in Seven know what to do if they run across one in the woods. So you've got four more people to worry about, who all handle it better than you desert people do. And I doubt there's one of you who knows how to catch a frog or fish. I'm willing to help you out, because it'll be easier for a while with the usual gang, but I don't care whether or not you find me useful. If you don't want to work with me, I'll leave you on your own, or I'll kill you. It's all the same to me. One way or another, I mean to go home."

Lucia gets between them. "Let's not go to melee before the end," she says. "We'll work this stuff out _then_." She looks from one to the other. "Guys, come on. We're all friends from training, right?"

Beside me, I hear Chaff snort. I look at him.

"Friends from training," he explains. "That's the story every year, but it's a business deal. They mostly hated each other."

"Oh."

"Sorry to spoil the story for you."

"No. It's interesting to know." I smile. "Besides, most people figure that's an act."

"They do?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Huh. I figured Capitol people just bought the whole show."

I roll my eyes. We're not _rubes_. Of course it's a show. Most years, the kids are actually mean to each other.

On screen, Tourmaline and Harris grudgingly shake hands. The girl from One, Catawba, who has been carefully arming herself and retreating toward the exit during this exchange, stops and says, "Then we're still allies?"

Harris shrugs. "Until melee. Then I don't care. I'm going home. They didn't let me say goodbye to my mother."

The coverage abruptly cuts away. Whatever Harris is saying, the Gamemakers have decided isn't for public consumption. I shouldn't want to know. But I can see on one of the small screens that he's talking as they get ready to leave. Saying _something_. I note the number on the screen, check our audio array and start to move my earphone plug.

I can't, though. It's not for my ears, and besides, Babra might need my attention and -

"Go ahead."

I look up at Haymitch, who looks about a year older than he did before he called the Morrisons. "What?"

"I saw you. You want to know what he's about to say. So do I. Listen. Tell me later. I'll watch Babra."

"Is it allowed?"

"They gave you the console, didn't they? So they must want you to use it."

I guess this is true. If it were forbidden, it wouldn't be possible.

I plug into the sound system for the inner district alliance.

"…mayor was pulling names," Harris finishes, looking disgusted.

"I didn't notice," Catawba says.

"Yeah, well, they didn't make a very big deal, did they? But our escort was speared on the beach like the world's ugliest fish. And they started dragging the women in to interrogate them. They had my mom during the whole visiting time."

"Why would they do _that_?"

"The old District Seven escort - and Twelve, I guess - killed him. So they think she's hiding with us."

"How do they know?"

Harris looks around. "All I know is what I heard. He was stabbed through the chest with a trident - that's a fishing spear - but there was something cut on his chest with a knife. Everyone was talking about it before the reaping. One of the guys from the crew that found him said she wrote 'Love, Gia' on his chest. Or maybe that was on paper or something, I don't know, but there was a knife there. It was an arena knife. Had the name of one of the kids from the fiftieth Games on it. Those were her last Games, and one of those knives might have been on the train, right? So they're pretty sure it's her. Only she didn't come forward, so they're interrogating everyone. And I want to get back, because I want to know that my mom's all right."

"I get it," Catawba tells him. "But everyone wants to get home, Harris, and only one of us is going to."

"Yeah. And it's going to be me. Sorry, but it's true."

"It doesn't make sense," Tourmaline says.

"What doesn't?"

"Why they'd drag in everyone." He shrugs, and passes a water bottle over to the boy from District Two, Trajan. "I mean, why not just find people who appeared out of nowhere, wearing heels and talking like they're from the Capitol?"

"Anyone can cover up an accent with a little practice," Harris says. "And if she's there, she's been there almost ten years. As to people who just show up?" He shrugs. "People cross our lines from the out-districts a lot. Mostly women. We have the easiest border, through the water, if you just miss the mines. So we end up with a lot of people who just 'show up.'"

"Still, someone would have to _remember_…"

"And that someone would have to tell. That someone _isn't_ telling." He grimaces. "If I ever find her…"

"You'll kill her yourself?"

Harris narrows his eyes. "They took my mother away screaming," he says. "I saw it from the platform. So, yeah. I wouldn't be real happy with her."

He moves on ahead, parting the heavy vines that hang from the swamp trees and leading them away from the Cornucopia. They stop talking.

I pull out my earpiece.

Haymitch looks at me quizzically.

"It's about your friend Gia. I guess he heard about the murder. He said they found - "

"I've seen the pictures, in gory detail."

"He's angry because she didn't turn herself in. They took his mother before he could say goodbye."

Haymitch grinds his teeth. "Great. And somehow, he's figuring it's Gia's fault."

It occurs to me that if she's not turning herself in when she sees that they're after everyone else, then it _is_ her fault, but I reconsider before saying it out loud. I think Haymitch wouldn't agree with me.

He looks at me for a long time, then sighs and shakes his head. "We may have an alliance," he says, turning away with some finality and nodding toward the main screen. Babra's camera has come back up, and is cutting back and forth with the girl from Seven, Nell Gordon. Nell is a strong-looking girl with short brown hair, and I think she was one who boasted about how strong she was at the interviews. She has also found a log to float on, and they are circling each other warily. I'm not sure why Haymitch is assuming it's an alliance in the offing.

Nell has broken off a piece of soggy wood. It has a sharp end, and it could probably do some damage. I don't think Babra has anything, but she hides her hand in the rain jacket's pocket and calls, "You let me go, I'll let you go. I've got no grudge with you."

Nell snorts. "Like we need a grudge in here."

"Come on. We'll get a day or two. Both of us can get on our feet."

"I'm already on my feet. I spent last summer shunting logs across a swamp in Camp Six. You run into a lot of this in the coal mines?"

Babra rolls her eyes hugely. "I'm a grocer," she says.

"Oh, well, that'll make all the difference. Lots of swampland at your store?"

They close the circle a little bit, coming closer to each other. "I figure things out pretty quickly," Babra says.

"Yeah? Figure this!" Nell raises the piece of wood, but the forward motion of her arm is counterbalanced in the water, and her log slides harmlessly away. She gapes, then leans forward and laughs. "Oh, yeah," she says. "I guess that was real threatening, huh?"

Babra laughs back. "Yeah. About as scary as my weapon." She takes her empty hand out of her pocket.

"Oh, brilliant," Haymitch mutters.

Nell takes another swing with her improvised lance, which sends her log drifting away in a gentle spin.

This gets both of them laughing, even though Babra _has_ to know that Nell didn't mean it as a joke.

"Come on," she says. "I may not know swamps, but I do know physics. Want to be allies?"

Nell looks at her quizzically. "Well, I wasn't planning on - "

The surface of the water erupts between them, sending out a huge wave and tossing both of them off their logs.

The creature that emerges is twice the size of the one that attacked the girl from Four, but it's the same kind of thing - the thing Harris called a "gator." It has razor sharp claws, and a deep mouth full of huge teeth.

Nell screams and struggles toward a small hillock in the swamp.

The gator jumps after her.

Babra takes off her jacket and uses the log to kick off of, propelling herself through the water and toward the gator.

"What's she doing?" I ask.

"No idea," Haymitch says.

She launches herself at the gator's back and climbs up. He tries to throw her, but she hangs on, and manages, somehow, to throw her jacket over its head, covering its eyes. She pulls back on the sleeves and holds it tight as it bellows and thrashes.

"Nell!" she shouts. "Nell, kill it! Get some traction and kill it!"

Nell has found something like solid ground under the water, though she's up to her chest. She grabs her pointed stick and pulls herself forward. It's slow and graceless, but she seems to be gaining confidence.

As she comes in reach of the mutt's claws, she forces the stick upward into its throat.

Blood pours down on her.

The mutt thrashes backward, and Babra jumps wildly off to one side as it falls and sinks back into the swamp, leaving it suddenly and eerily silent. Babra gets up and wrings mud out of her hair.

"So," Nell says. "You were saying something about being allies?"

Babra grins.

"How did you know?" I ask Haymitch. "I thought that girl was going to kill Babra."

"They're both scared to death. They both ran away from the Cornucopia, like smart people do. So, scared smart people realize that it's a little less scary with help."

"Were _you_ scared?"

"I had forty-seven people out to kill me. What do _you_ think?"

"I guess I never thought about it. You didn't _look_ scared."

"They're all scared, Effie. Every last one of them. Even the ones going on about how they're sure they'll win."

The clarity I woke up with is starting to fade. I can't think about this, so I stop thinking about it. "Let me get the alliance papers for Mr. Hedge," I say. I pick up the case of papers under the table and start looking for the right forms.

There's a soft thump, and I look up to find that Oliver Hedge - better known as Blight - has pushed his table over. "Haymitch," he says.

"Blight." They shake hands. Haymitch pulls over a chair for Blight's escort. "You know, I could have come over there."

"You got extra room on one side," Blight says. "It's easier this way. They need to keep moving somehow. It's harder to hit a moving target."

Haymitch nods. "You noticed that, too? Mags's girl, and now it comes after ours?"

"I'm not counting on it just being the girls," Blight says. "I'm keeping a close eye on Sebastian, too." He looks in my direction. "Is this your new escort?"

"Yeah. Eff- Euphemia Trinket, Blight Hedge."

"Pleased to meet you!" I say, extending my hand.

He shakes it. "Likewise." He turns back to Haymitch. "So how can we help them keep moving…?"

The two of them start talking about what gifts to send them. It sounds like they mean to send messages, which they're not supposed to do - once the tributes are in the arena, it's supposed to be all their own thinking - but which everyone guesses they do anyway. There are all kinds of convoluted theories about mentor messages. I'm starting to think the reality might be even _more_ convoluted.

They both seem very sure that their tributes are being targeted, even though other districts (Six and Ten) have already lost both tributes, while we still have Babra, District Four still has Harris, and Blight hasn't lost either of them. In my head, I hear an old teacher of mine from Capitol Dreams, Papirius Long sighing as he looks out the window at some party or another. "The districts are paranoid and ignorant, Euphemia. It's no fault of their own - they've been stuck in these cultural ruts for generations. They're never really exposed to life. They reject knowledge, and they fill the gaps with crazy ideas about how everyone is out to get them. That's how Thirteen got them to go along with its nonsense in the Dark Days. When you don't really believe in anything, you become very _gullible._ That's why we make sure that you believe in the Capitol, that you understand that we only want the best for these people in the end, even when they don't know what's best for themselves. It's a bulwark against gullibility."

The thing is, Haymitch may be many things - many of them not very pleasant - but he doesn't strike me as gullible, and he's a million miles from ignorant. And honestly, I didn't meet a lot of people in District Twelve, but the ones I did meet seemed quite smart.

I guess it doesn't prevent paranoia.

On the main screen, they finally return to the inner district alliance. Lucia has taken over generalship, and Harris is letting her. They've commandeered a tent in the Cornucopia, and after some searching, they've found almost solid ground to set it up on, though Catawba, who's trying to place the stakes, finally gives up and secures the ropes to protruding tree roots. The resulting tent is lopsided, but seems secure enough. It's big enough for four out of the five of them, if a little tight, and the fifth will always be on guard duty outside, anyway.

Harris takes the first watch, sitting stoically on a rock while the others get things arranged.

"We should go back for the other tent," Trajan says. "I don't like just leaving the supplies wrapped up." He points toward a large ball of plastic wrapping, where they've stored all the food they carried from the Cornucopia. It's tethered to a tree.

"Tent's not going to help," Harris says, not even looking over his shoulder into the tent. "It's just one more layer to get through when we want to get something."

"Speaking of which," Lucia says, "is anyone hung-"

Harris stands up, pulling a sword. "Something's coming."

A howl breaks the foggy quiet of the swamp, then another, and another.

The alliance comes out of the tent, weapons drawn.

Three wolves come slinking out of the trees, balancing on the tree roots, their great teeth bared.

They launch themselves at Harris.

He strikes the first one cleanly, cutting its neck deep. The second and third jump him from the sides. Tourmaline grabs one and yanks it off, tossing it aside, stunned.

Harris puts the sword through a second wolf, but it seems to stick, and when the body rolls off into the water, it takes his weapon with him.

"Well, that was bracing," Catawba says, looking around nervously. She has a hunting knife raised in front of her. "They were - "

The stunned wolf jumps to its feet with sudden ferocity, and rushes on Harris. He grabs it by the neck and rolls it over into the water, forcing its head under until it stops moving.

"Wow," Tourmaline says, "the mutts really don't like District Four this year."

The other inner district kids laugh, but Harris doesn't. "They really don't," he says, and kicks away the drowned wolf. "Before the overgrown poodles decided to adopt me, did someone say something about being hungry?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**  
The rest of the day is uneventful, by Games standards. Harris teaches the other inner-district kids how to catch frogs to eat, Babra and Nell try to figure out how they're supposed to light a fire to cook with when everything is soaking wet (Haymitch hopes they won't figure it out, as any fire will be smoky and draw attention to them), and Daylily sets up quite a competent little shelter on a mud bar. Her district partner, Planter, is still wandering around, occasionally nibbling the local plant life. It doesn't seem to make him sick. An alliance forms among the remaining tributes from Districts Three, Eight, and Ten (both kids from Eight are still in play, but the other districts have each lost one).

By dinner time, Claudius Templesmith has started calling in the experts and commentators, since not much has happened in the arena. I've managed to scrounge up enough money for some matches, if Haymitch decides to change his mind about the girls building a fire (or if Mr. Hedge manages to talk him into it; they don't agree on the danger level, but Mr. Hedge's sponsors haven't given enough for him to act on his own).

When the main coverage breaks, Haymitch sighs. "Effie, would you mind taking a meeting with a sponsor?" He hands me a file on a woman named Firmina Sanders. "She's a nice lady. You'll like her. She'll like you. Maybe we can get Babra and Nell some shelter if I get some calls in. Or at least a blanket."

"All right." I bite my lip. "Haymitch, your sponsors at Daughters of the Founding think, um - "

He grins. "That I'm bringing a girl home to meet them?"

"Something like that."

"Well, let 'em down easy. They're decent folk. They just want me to be happy."

"It's not a bad goal," I suggest. "You might try it."

He snorts a little laugh. "Yeah. Any day now." His grin broadens into a smile, and he shakes his head. I suspect that I'm more aware than he is of the way his eyes are traveling over me. "Don't worry about things like that, Effie. Not your job. Miss Sanders, on the other hand, _is_ your job, and she wants to meet at her house. Can you make it in half an hour?"

I look at the address. We're practically on top of it here, so I nod.

"Good," Haymitch says. "And you go home and get some rest after. I might call in the middle of the night if I need to sleep, now that I have an escort I can trust to answer."

"Okay." I start to leave, then turn. "I should probably warn you - Miss Meadowbrook is my housemother, and she might pick up."

He clenches his teeth. "Good warning. Thanks."

"I don't think she'd mind talking to you, for what it's worth."

"I know," he says quietly. "But… you try to pick up, okay? I mean, if you're in. If you want to go out and get some air, you're allowed, you know? As long as I can reach you somehow."

"Okay. Next year, I'll have my own place. And my own line."

He nods, and I slip out of the Viewing Center. No one notices me.

It takes me five minutes to get to the Sanders home. It's an old section of town known as the Grove, where families who made their fortunes before the Dark Days built their personal playgrounds. Most of them held onto their money with iron fists, and survived the war comfortably, though they lost sons and daughters in the fighting. The ones who were left held onto the land and houses, and their families stayed on. At first, they were the social leaders of the Capitol, and their names are well-represented in government circles even now, but they didn't change with the times.

They're behind things socially, a favorite target of young comics. I remember a string of skits a few years back postulating Grove fashions, which always seemed to have collars that went up high enough to hide the face, skirts that hid the ankles, and, most weeks, different sorts of elaborate locks to go around ladies' knees, and on the zippers of gentlemen's pants (no keys necessary, since no one's looking to unlock them). I don't think anyone under the age of fifty lives here, and the younger people who moved out always complain about how staid and prudish it is. Most of the old people left are the ones who never did join the new world, who were left behind and left alone, with only each other and their ever-present fancy animals to keep them company. They watch sappy shows on television, and are sometimes shown crying over dead tributes. Anyone else caught doing those things is teased mercilessly, and threatened with "ending up a Grover."

Of course, you can only really end up a Grover if you have old money and old manners. While there are certainly a few tasteful gatherings in some of the gardens, and the wine is most likely flowing, there's none of the revelry that exists where the people are younger. The sounds of the conversations barely make it over the garden walls.

Miss Sanders lives in an old stone house with a low, ivy-covered wall around the front yard. Her front door is decorated with blue crystals. When she answers the door, she's carrying a long-haired white cat with a bright red bow on its head. She insists on showing me around her house, which is beautiful, and full of old and lovely things. We finally have tea underneath an imposing portrait of her great-great-grandmother, who made her fortune inventing the neurotechnology that was eventually adopted to control mutts.

"At the time, it was just a curiosity," Miss Sanders says. "They grew animals in labs, and the brains didn't develop properly, so she made the little chips to compensate. And it turned out that they could be controlled." She sighs. "It's the sort of thing that would be invented in District Three, now. Her son, my great-grandfather, swore loyalty to the Capitol, which is why we weren't exiled out there with her friends. But it's sad how very few things we invent for ourselves these days, don't you think?"

"We have the arts," I remind her. "And nearly all of the communications technology. And there in Three, they can work with each other with less interference from the business end of things. At least that's what they say in school."

"I suppose," she says, then smiles. "Now, I imagine you want to talk about money. I've been watching, of course. What does young Mr. Abernathy think the girl will need? Or is he saving aside this year, in case she makes it to the end and needs something expensive?"

I get out the supply list and show Miss Sanders the things we think she'll need. None of it is in the price range of a single sponsor - even a sponsor as wealthy as she is - but she does get me about a quarter of the way to a canvas sheet, which Babra and Nell can set up to protect them from the rain while they sleep. She says that she's saving some in abeyance, in case Babra makes it to the end. Apparently, she did the same for Haymitch in his year, and was able to contribute toward the ice pack and pain killers he needed to finish things off.

"I was so glad he won," she says. "I hate it when we lose the clever ones. Such a waste." Something in her eyes goes far away, and she sighs deeply. "It's a _horrible_ waste. The war. Everything after. I still hate District Thirteen for what they did to this country. It wasn't like this before the war. I have letters from my ancestors, and journals, and papers. It wasn't like this."

I have heard this sort of talk before, and it makes me nervous. My hands start to sweat. _Of course it wasn't like this_, I say in my head. _Things change. You have to change with them. You can't be stuck in the past like this._ Of course, I don't say it out loud. She's a sponsor. Contradicting people with money isn't a good idea.

I take care of the paperwork for the donation, and tell her that I need to go get some rest, so I can be available for Haymitch later. She invites me back for a summer picnic she hosts in the neighborhood after the Games. I accept. I know Glass didn't spend much of the year working contacts (and obviously, Haymitch can't do it from Twelve), but maybe I can make sure that we're not starting from scratch at every reaping.

I go back to the Dreams compound and try to sleep, but all of the lights are on outside, and there's a party downstairs. Miss Meadowbrook offers me more pills, but I refuse them, since I promised Haymitch. She rolls her eyes, calls him "silly," and mutters something about glass houses.

I lie awake for a little while, but when Domitia and Leon come in with their friends and start the party here, I give up. I change into a blue shorts set, put on a long wig in a complimentary shade of blue, and go out to join them. We loll around the common area for a while, then Glaucia Shannon suggests heading out to Bacchus Pleasure Park. They don't single me out to invite me along, but I seem to be in the general crowd as we head out, and no one comments on it. I put on an on-call bracelet, in case Haymitch calls and Miss Meadowbrook needs to reach me immediately. I decide that a personal comm will come even before an apartment in the order of spending after the Games.

As we go through the city in Junius Nevin's car, they shout out to the various Games parties that we pass. A woman in a red bikini dances down the street beside us for a while. She has a giant "4" painted on her stomach. We get to the park around nine.

The Games night coverage is playing from giant screens that can be seen anywhere in the park. A few other people from the Dreams compound are going around with snacks and various kinds of stay-awakes. Haymitch didn't _explicitly_ forbid these, but I decide to be more safe than sorry. I'm not tired anyway. Domitia takes a good number of them and passes them out, and within twenty minutes, everyone else seems kind of buzzed. I go on the Ferris wheel with Junius, and he puts his arms around me and tells me that I'm beautiful and everyone should want me like he does. I let him kiss and touch me a little bit - he's a nice boy, mostly, and I can't think of a good reason to say no to him - but I'm not sorry when the ride ends and he switches his attention over to Glaucia.

We roam the park together. It's early yet, and things are just getting started. For a while, we watch a fire eater outside a tent, then we ride the Free Fall, which drops us a hundred meters toward the black of the lake, and catches us at what seems like the very last minute. Leon dares me to do the firewalk, because he knows I'm a little scared of fire. I do it. The object is to find which is real fire and which is fake, and to only walk through the fake (there's a first aid station for people who make mistakes). They're all older than I am, and they sneak me into the adult area ("You're two weeks away from eighteen, anyway!"), where pretty girls and boys dance in very little clothing. There are tents off to the side where they do more than dance for you. Domitia doesn't hesitate before picking out a boy with bright purple curls. She waggles her fingers and says, "Go on, Euphemia. Dare-dare-dare!" before she disappears inside.

I don't "dare," though a few of the boys come over and wiggle in my general direction. Of the others, only Leon does go in (he picks a girl in a yellow feathered leotard). I sit at a picnic table with Glaucia and Junius and a handful of other Dreams kids who've joined us. They get wine, but I decide to be safe and not drink, either.

"Haymitch Abernathy is strict about _that_?" a girl named Celsa Forrester asks, and laughs.

"He doesn't drink during the Games," I point out.

"Right, sure he doesn't."

"He _doesn't._ I think I know better than you."

"From a whole two days."

"It's my second year with District Twelve."

Glaucia snorts. "Yeah, and I bet you see everything."

"I see enough."

"How much _are_ you seeing, Euphemia?" Junius asks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully. "You do seem especially... _devoted_." He sticks out his tongue.

I think about the way Haymitch looked at me earlier, and I feel myself blush. I hope they can't tell in the reddish light of the pavilion.

"Spill it, Trinket," Celsa says. "Did you go feral on us?"

"He's not _feral_," I tell her.

"Oo, defensive."

"And I'm not… we're not…"

They all laugh, and I want to crawl under the table, even though they don't mean any harm by it. Glaucia actually gives me a hug and leaves her arm around me. "I think we're embarrassing Euphemia. Don't you worry about them, honey."

"Yeah, forget about it," a boy named Numerian says. "We all know you've got the most boring sex life this side of District Three. What about the _Games_? Anything exciting we're not seeing?"

"Oh, if it were exciting, they'd find a way to show it," I say.

"Really?"

Of course it's not at all true. I'm pretty sure they'd be riveted by Harris's story about the murder in Four. I smile and say, "Sure. Mostly what we're seeing is just them walking around in the swamp and trying to find a dry place to sit down." I point up at the screen, where Daylily is staying up in her shelter, trying to fashion a weapon from the shell of a turtle that she ate for dinner. "This is pretty much it. They edit the exciting things together for mandatory viewing."

"Oh, come on, nothing?" Junius leans in and flutters his eyelashes at me. "I'll be good. I won't tell on you."

Given that we're out in the open and there are probably cameras and microphones hidden around here, I doubt he'd _have_ to tell anyone. But I'm not going to tell him anyway. I had to sign an agreement about that. "Really, any time Claudius Templesmith comes on like this " - I point at the screen, which has just switched over to studio coverage - "it's because no one is doing anything interesting."

"Well, let's see what old Cloud-head's rambling on about, anyway," Glaucia says, and turns on the sound at the table. It comes from little speakers embedded in the furniture.

"…are all settling in for the night," Claudius tells us. "Let's learn more about our environment…"

"AAAAGH!" Numerian screams, flailing. "Geography lesson! No!"

Claudius goes through the various features of real swamps, even shows a few around the world, and talks about the normal dangers of predators - "I'm sure you've noticed a lot of mutts this year!" But the predators aren't the only dangers, not at all. The water can abruptly become deep. Sitting water attracts diseases (it sounds like Claudius is really hoping for a good plague). It's easy to get lost and disoriented. It's difficult to move. He shows a compilation of tributes falling in the mud.

"Hey, isn't that first one from Twelve?" Junius says. "The idiot who just fell on his face at the Cornucopia?"

"Another tribute drowned him," I say. "Trill wasn't an idiot. He was a nice boy."

"He tripped on his own feet and drowned in three inches of water." Junius looks at me oddly. "Are you okay, Euphemia?"

"Fine. Trill was nice."

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay. Nicest guy around."

"Another danger in swamps," Claudius goes on importantly, "is quicksand, or more accurately, 'quickmud,' a non-Newtonian fluid that appears nearly solid at first glance, but can immobilize, incapacitate, and even kill unsuspecting wanderers. And, yes…" He listens to something on his earpiece, then looks up with great solemnity. "Yes, I thought one of our tributes was getting close. Here we find District Seven tribute Sebastian Jakes, who believes he has finally found a safe campsite, but the very ground beneath him has become saturated and unstable. Will he make it out in time?"

The coverage cuts to Sebastian, who has fallen into a light sleep in a sheltered, lagoon-like area. He rolls over in his sleep, and the movement seems to break the world open.

He wakes up to find himself partially sunk in the suddenly viscous mud beneath him. He flails wildly as Claudius tells us in a voiceover that this is precisely what he _shouldn't_ do, and that a boy from Seven should know that, having spent his life in the woods.

"He's just waking up," I say. "How could he remember anything?"

He tries to scramble forward and up, trying not to scream and bring attention to himself, which is a bit more aware than I think _I'd_ be, but he can't find purchase. He's upright now, but the mud has already come up over his stomach, and it's rising fast. Too fast. I've never seen quicksand, but I don't think any kind of sand, or mud, would be this… _aggressive._ I remember Mr. Hedge saying that he'd be keeping an eye on Sebastian, because of tricks. It's…

"Look at him!" Celsa says, pointing at the screen and laughing. She mimes his struggles by waving her arms around wildly, causing the others to laugh.

I am the only one watching the screen when he goes all the way under, and the cannon goes off.

"Hey, Euphemia, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say. I glance at my on-call bracelet, which is silent, then cover it up with my hand and say, "Oh, Haymitch is calling. I have to go."

"Need a ride?" Junius asks.

"I'll take a taxi."

I run for the exit. I don't know why I can't seem to stay. This is all normal. I'm the one acting different. I'm the one being a stick-in-the-mud. I know that. And I know I can't stand to be here anymore. I don't want to look up at the dance pavilion and see my remaining tribute sucked into the mud with no warning.

I catch a cab and go straight to the Viewing Center, not thinking until after I get there that I'm just not dressed for it. I look like a kid in my long, loose wig and my shorts.

But I don't want to go home. I'll go back tomorrow and pack a bag for the rest of the Games.

I get inside and go upstairs. Haymitch and Mr. Hedge are both at the table. Mr. Hedge looks upset, and I guess he's just called Sebastian's family.

I go to them.

Haymitch looks up, surprised. "I didn't call you," he says.

I look at Mr. Hedge. "I saw what happened. I'm very sorry about Sebastian."

He smiles. "Thank you, Effie," he says, then looks at Haymitch. "Keep this one."

"What are you really doing here?" Haymitch asks.

"I decided I'd rather be here," I tell him. "Sorry I'm not dressed right."

He nods. "Don't worry about it. Blight's escort went home for the night. Do you think you could get the budget together for us?"

"Okay. Did you want to get some sleep?"

"Yeah. I do. Wake me in an hour or so, okay?"

I nod, and take our donation books and the ones from District Seven. Sebastian's and Trill's sponsors all signed to have money moved to the other tribute in case of death. Even with Miss Sanders's donation, we don't have enough for a real tent, like the inner districts have, but we're getting close to that canvas tarp. I can't really get to anyone else until morning. They're up and they may call, but if I call them in the middle of their parties for anything other than an emergency, I'll probably risk their sponsorship for next year. I get the alliance papers in order with the new financial information, and send it upstairs to the Gamemakers, so they'll know our resources. By the time I'm finished, it's been an hour, and I go back into the mentor's lounge, where I find Haymitch sprawled out on one of the curtained beds. I wake him up. He insists that I take a sleeping shift. I crawl into the bed he's vacated, and drowse off within minutes.

I dream about Sebastian, and wake myself up twice trying to escape quickmud, but I finally manage to stay asleep. I dream about my last day of school, about going in and seeing my picture broadcast on every wall, bleeding and crying, while Junius laughs at how stupid I look. This time, Haymitch and Mr. Hedge keep me safe, and get me out of school, and I feel like they're going to make sure it never happens again.

Mr. Hedge wakes me up around four, and tells me that there's breakfast in the dining lounge. He takes a turn sleeping.

I'm not hungry. I go back out onto the floor, meaning to go right back to my table, but I see that my seat is full.

Caesar Flickerman is sitting in it, having what looks like a very serious talk with Haymitch.

I look down at myself. I am not dressed to see the head of the Games production team, my boss. Not when I look even younger than I am, not when I obviously spent part of the evening at the parties.

I try to sneak around behind them, but it brings me very close, close enough to hear what they're saying.

"She's a _kid_," Haymitch says. "She's good at what she does, but why would you throw her in here with this craziness?"

"Because she's good at what she does. Because you needed someone you could trust, and I needed someone _I_ could trust to take care of you." Mr. Flickerman smiles. "I figured it would be a nice change from Glass."

"She's not ready to deal with this. She's on that happy gas they give out at Capitol Dreams. She's innocent. She's not prepared."

"She's older than you were."

"That's not a recommendation." Haymitch rearranges some papers on the table. "A kid of seventeen doesn't need to be hanging around in a room full of killers. I didn't need it when I was seventeen, that's for sure, but I didn't have a choice."

"She does. And she appears to have made it."

Haymitch sighs. "What's your game, Caesar? I know you're playing one, but you're a lot more subtle about it than they are." He points upstairs, toward the Gamemakers' headquarters.

"Why would I be playing games with you? What do you think the object is?"

"No idea."

Mr. Flickerman considers all of this carefully. "If I do have a goal, it's just to keep you sane."

"Too late."

"You're not crazy. You should be, but you're not." He shrugs. "I figured you could use someone you'd actually care about, who'll still be here next year."

"You're trying to make me love the Capitol, aren't you? Like with the library. And the museum. And the parks. You think I'll take one look at some sweet, pretty girl and figure the Capitol must be great after all."

"I wouldn't mind seeing you admit that there are things here worth loving. But I wanted to find you an escort you could trust because I think you deserve to be surrounded by good people who have your best interests at heart. Nothing more nefarious than that. And Miss Trinket is a good person who proved to me that she'd act in your best interests, so I hired her." He looks up, directly at me, and smiles. "Though she needs to improve her eavesdropping skills, or wear a somewhat duller wig."

I put my hand over my face. "I'm sorry. I was… I was going to go home and get more suitable clothes and I just heard… I should have said something."

"Yeah, you should have," Haymitch says. "But don't worry about it. And let me know if you figure out Caesar's game."

"I think he told you his game," I say.

"Aw, you don't actually believe Caesar, do you? He's the best storyteller in the Capitol."

"That's because I tell the truth," Mr. Flickerman says, and stands up. "Now, I'd best get back to the studio. I'm producing a piece on literary swamps. It'll be fascinating." He tips an invisible hat to me.

I take my seat. Before Haymitch and I can talk about what I overheard - if he even means to - the phone rings for the first time of the second day. I pick it up and get back to work.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**  
By the time morning really comes to the arena, we've managed to scrape together enough for the tarp. Babra and Nell, who've been huddling under a large-leafed tree, are very grateful for it. They take turns actually being able to sleep. Haymitch has been scribbling in the sponsor book; I'm not sure why.

Another mutt attack wakes them at mid-morning, and a weird, hovering fire nearly leads Harris Greaves into the deep water, thinking he's after other tributes. "Why isn't anyone seeing this?" Mr. Hedge asks. "It's worse than that lion."

"No one knows Glass is dead," Haymitch says. "And they're hitting three districts that no one thinks have anything to do with each other outside an occasional alliance."

Mr. Hedge grinds his teeth.

A little bit after lunch, Mr. Hedge is called away by Peacekeepers. His escort, Barnabas Laird, takes over for him, and starts calling sponsors, loudly asking for money for matches.

Haymitch grimaces. "They'll give away their position. Blight _has_ to know better."

"They're _cold_," I point out.

"Better cold and alive than warm and dead." He sighs and rubs his forehead. "This one's got a chance, Effie," he says. "She's playing smart, and she's playing to the cameras. She could _do_ it, if I can just keep her from doing anything stupid."

He pulls out the sponsor book, and I see that he hasn't been totaling numbers and figuring costs. He's drawn the rough map of the arena that we got when the broadcast began, and he's been plotting where all of the tributes are. The official maps only track our own. Every now and then, the public broadcast will show a glimpse of more than one group, but that's when they're playing it for the potential fight. Only the Gamemakers know where _everyone_ is.

"Look," he says, pointing to the scribbled stars that represent Babra and Nell. "They don't see it, but they're down in a bowl. And over here" - he points to a nearby set of stars - "The alliance from Three, Eight, and Ten. Those districts play fair enough, but it's perfectly fair to take advantage of a mistake." He leans forward with his head in his hands.

Again, I consider the wisdom of putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. This time, it seems all right, so I do it. He reaches back and covers it with his own.

I don't want to spoil it, and risk him being angry at me, but I also need to protect the alliance. "Haymitch…?" I start.

"What?"

"Maybe…"

He lets go of my hand and raises an eyebrow. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe Mr. Hedge doesn't realize. Maybe… you need to stop thinking he's reading your mind."

"How could he not see that? I guarantee Chaff sees it." He looks over at the next table. "Did you notice that I have neighbors?"

"What am I, blind?" Chaff asks. "I taught you that map trick."

"See?" Haymitch says.

"I don't think Mr. Hedge has mapped out where the other alliance is."

"But they're - "

"And it all looks alike… to people who aren't in your head, anyway. He may not have any idea how close they are."

He frowns, and I can almost see him formulating an argument. Then he waves his hand wearily and says, "Yeah, maybe. I'll talk to Blight when he gets back. We've got plenty in common, but we've never been allies before."

"Good," I say.

He goes back to his map, not even looking at me, and says, "And Effie?"

"What?"

"Don't get skittish on me. It's annoying, and if you see something important and don't say it, I could _miss_ something important."

"You won't be mad?"

"Oh, yeah, I'll be mad. But don't be afraid of that. It'll blow over."

"Before or after you swing a knife at me?"

"I'll only swing a knife at you if you startle me awake, and that won't be because I'm mad. I really don't make a habit of trying to kill my allies."

There's nothing else to say. The phone rings, and I start taking sponsor calls again. Babra and Nell catch a lizard and eat it raw for lunch. The inner district alliance catches up to Planter, and, though he tries to get them to let him join their group, trying to amuse them and make them laugh, they don't end up showing him any mercy. Chaff goes to call his family, but comes back to keep helping Seeder with Daylily.

District Six loses its remaining tribute late in the afternoon, when he wanders into Athena Burke, from Five, who turns out to be less nervous in the arena than she was on Caesar's stage. He's her first kill, and it seems to give her a boost in energy. She hunts down the girl from Nine as well, then, wild-eyed, climbs a tree and waits for prey.

About the time that they're serving us dinner, there's a skirmish between the two big alliances - the five inner district kids, and the cobbled together alliance with Three, Eight, and Ten. Catawba takes a wound, but survives. The other alliance is cut in half, leaving only the boys from Eight and Ten.

It's only the second day, and we're down to nine tributes. At least one of our girls will make the final eight.

"They'll slow it down now," Haymitch says, leaning back. "They have to. No one will be satisfied if it keeps going this fast." He doesn't sound as sure as usual. "They'll go for some human drama. Maybe see if the career districts will keep Ca-" He stops talking and nearly jumps to his feet. "Blight!"

I turn around and stifle a scream. Mr. Hedge is back, and he's covered in blood. He's managed to wipe his face, so there's just a brownish red smear, but his clothes are drenched.

"Are you hurt?" Haymitch asks.

"No. Are they?" He nods at the screen, where Nell and Babra are trying to figure out how many times they've heard the cannon.

"Yeah, but -"

Mr. Hedge points at his clothes in a disgusted way. "Not mine," he says. "They dumped it on me. All the genetic screening samples. Seems someone has it in his head that I faked Gia's genetic code in the records they're checking against, and that's why they're not finding her. They drenched me and I've been smelling it for five hours now."

"Do you have a change of clothes?" I ask. "If not, I can go get you something…"

"I got clothes upstairs, but I wanted to make sure the girls were still okay. I haven't had any access."

Haymitch nods. "The other alliances are going the other direction now, too. Maybe we could think about matches, if you figure they're smart enough not to actually send up a flare."

He looks at Barnabas. "How's the money looking?"

"We should have enough as soon as -"

On screen, Babra lets loose a scream.

Something very large is rising out of the swamp, so close that it dislodges the props they've put up under their tarp. I can't tell what it is - it's covered with vines and muck.

"Stay still!" Haymitch yells uselessly at the screen.

The girls run wildly into the swamp, tripping and falling into the mud.

It takes the inner district alliance about a minute to find them. The fight is brutal and short. Catawba, already wounded, falls to Babra, but the rest are on our girls like hyenas in a pack.

The cannons go off.

Haymitch and Mr. Hedge stare at the main screen, at the sudden darkness on their table screens. I can't seem to breathe properly. Only a few minutes ago, we were talking about sending them matches. Haymitch was saying that Babra had a chance. The truth doesn't seem real. My mind keeps trying to turn away from it, to make it like every other Games. It happens every year. Tributes just make mistakes and lose.

_They all die, you know. They don't come back. You're calling them to die._

Haymitch moves first. He storms to the booths to call Babra's family, though I'm sure they're watching even before mandatory viewing, and they must already know. I look at Mr. Hedge, still covered in congealing blood, picking unconsciously at his clothes. "You can't call the family until you change your clothes," I tell him. It's crazy, but it's the only thing I can think of. "At least your shirt."

He pulls off the bloody shirt and tosses it aside. "Barnabas?" he asks.

His escort pulls off his shirt and hands it over.

"Thank you. And you should have been the one to remind me."

He goes to the booth.

Barnabas glares at me.

I don't care.

Haymitch comes back. His eyes are unfocused and glassy. I start to reach out to him, but he goes around me, hooks his fingers under the table, and flips it over, scattering equipment and papers everywhere. "That was _deliberate!_" he shouts.

"Haymitch, you want to sit down," Chaff says.

"_Hell_ I do."

"You need to - "

"I've had it, Chaff. I can't…" He goes quiet, and storms off.

Chaff looks at me. "Honey, you better go after him."

"But you know him better."

"I'm likely to let him talk me into whatever he's doing. You calm him down. I've seen you do it."

"But -"

"Your credentials are impeccable. They won't bother you. Honey, you need to keep him from doing any useless damage."

I go after him.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors above the doors as I go outside. I do not look like a woman in a responsible position, who's been charged with keeping a very angry victor from doing something self-destructive. I am still dressed in a child's clothes, and I look like a schoolgirl who is about to start crying. I force myself not to think about any of it. I go out into the bright, late afternoon sun.

I find Haymitch in the middle of Headquarters Plaza, behind the media pens. They haven't noticed him yet. They certainly haven't noticed that, somewhere between the tables and here, he's picked up a knife. Luckily, the press corps is avidly following an interview with the District Two mentor right now, and haven't noticed Haymitch standing behind them.

I come up behind him, staying out of range of his arms. "Haymitch," I say.

His hand tightens on the knife. "Go away, Effie."

"You promised not to swing knives at me."

"Do you see it swinging at you?"

I touch his arm. "Please. Come with me. You have to get out of here. What do you think you're going to do?"

"What I'm good at. Only thing I've ever been better at than anyone else."

"You _can't_. You're not in the arena."

"Right. Sure I'm not." He finally turns and looks at me. "It's _all_ the arena. I never left. I'll never leave."

"You _did_ leave. You're not there anymore." I reach out and take his empty hand, then carefully, hold my hand out for the knife. "You're on the outside. Just give me the knife, okay? Let's not do anything crazy. There'll be kids next year who'll need you."

"You're perfectly capable of babysitting them until they die, Euphemia. You're very talented. You can make up for whatever idiot they put in as a mentor. You do it. I'm done."

"They'll need someone who really understands. Haymitch, please give me the knife."

He doesn't give it to me, but he does throw it off to one side. He lets go of my hand and walks away. There's a low fountain nearby, and he sits down on the edge, the strength seeming to bleed out of him.

I sit down beside him and put my arm across his shoulders. He doesn't dislodge it.

"How can you stand this?" he asks. "You're a decent person. You're… _nice_. You're actually _nice_. How can you stand to be part of this? How can you not be crazy from it? Why would you volunteer to be part of it?"

"It's my job," I say. "I have to work. And there are good parts. I get to help you. That's a good part."

"Oh, yeah. That's a real perk. Keep me from killing anyone. You have a weird sense of 'good,' Euphemia."

I don't know what to say, so I move my hand and rub the back of his neck. I have a vague memory of my mother doing this when I was small. It seems to calm him down a little.

After a while, he looks up at the giant Games screen that's set up over the plaza. On it, Claudius is talking about how the betting odds have changed since the sudden bloodbaths of the afternoon. Harris, always a strong runner, now has the clear lead. Daylily is considered a longshot, but if she wins, it will be a huge payoff. He mentions jovially that Babra had been one of the heavier favorites among the betting crowd, and now, people have to pay up. There was some question about the final eight, and who made it, since three people died at roughly the same time. The Gamemakers have, in fact, declared Babra to be in seventh place, so anyone who bet on her to make the top third has pulled at least a little money out of the deal.

Something is tightening in my chest. I look around, try to find anything else to look at. There's a juggler near the media tower. He has five flaming clubs. I watch. The world seems to be caught in prisms, and there are twenty clubs now, and four jugglers. Strange, doubled dancers in sequined costumes perform for the Games crowd.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the world is in singles again.

Haymitch is still staring at the screen. He looks ill. "What's wrong with this place?" he hisses.

"I don't know."

"You tell me, Effie. You live here. You love it here. How can it be like this? You have everything you want here. Why…" He shakes his head. "It's all a cover. The libraries. The museums. It's all a cover for… _that_." He gestures at the screen in disgust.

"No! Those things are real, too. And the lake, and the nice old ladies in the Grove, and the art, and…" I stand up. "Come on, Haymitch. Let's get you out of here. Let me show you something."

"I don't want to."

"I know, but you need to get out of here. You need to stop gnawing at your own bones."

"I don't want to go where there are people. I don't think I'd be good with people."

"There are places without people," I tell him, though I have to really think about where they might be. A lot of the museums are deserted most of the time, but from the sound of it, he's not feeling charitable toward them. The only places that are going to be empty are the places where there's nothing happening.

I think about his old ladies. I know them, because I've helped them before - with the monuments. No one goes to the monuments. There's a huge promenade of statues on the lake shore. Unless the Daughters of the Founding are repairing them - and they won't be, during the Games - then no one will be there.

I take his hand and lead him away from the Games Headquarters, slipping by the crowd as unobtrusively as we can. (One excited boy runs up and asks Haymitch for an autograph. I can tell he's angry and wants to lash out, but he manages not to, probably because he can tell that the boy means no harm by it.) I call for a taxi, and ask the driver to take us to Monument Way. He looks at me like I'm crazy, but he doesn't turn down the fare.

It's a long drive, and Haymitch doesn't talk during it. I can see him looking out the windows at the partiers in the street. I see him hating them.

Hating _us_.

Eventually, the taxi takes us out of the middle of the city, through the graceful neighborhoods of the museums and studios. The fashion district has carved out a space beyond the art museum, and I consider pointing out Lepidus's shop, then think better of it. Haymitch may know it, anyway. He watches all of this go by in a dull, disinterested way. The buildings finally stop as we pull into the parking lot at Monument way. The driver lets us out, and I pay by swiping my thumbprint. It's nice to know I have the money to do that now, and I don't need to ask Haymitch to cover anything.

The breeze at the lake shore is cool and gentle, and the gulls circle around, looking for a tasty fish or maybe a bit of someone's garbage. I lead the way into the park. The monuments are huge here - the statues of the founders, the memorial to the lost pioneers, the dark, abstract shape that commemorates the Catastrophes. A pebbled path leads among them, lined with the president's own roses, and huge, beautiful flowers engineered to catch the eye. Their soft scent fills the air, along with the tang of saltwater from the lake. The path leads down to a flagstone patio that overlooks the water.

"See?" I say. "A little fresh air."

"Yeah. I guess." He walks a little without saying anything, then jerks his chin up at one of the statues. "Who's that?" he asks without much interest. I have the impression that this is his version of being excruciatingly polite.

"The builder," I say. "Arrian James. He was one of the founders. When their group had been wandering through the desert, and they found this place, he was the one who realized they could build it back up - that everything was here to work with. He directed the first rebuilding projects, and got everyone a safe place to live."

"Oh. Right. I remember the name from school." He points at another one. "That's Laelia Grant, right? The first president?"

"We call her Mother Laelia. I played her once in the Founding Pageant."

"She wanted to take in the wanderers. Feed them. She was a bow-hunter."

Since the statue is equipped with a bow and arrow and shows one of the birds she shot, I suppose this could be a guess rather than knowledge, but he seems to be searching for something other than anger to express, so I just say, "Yes. She was very famous for that."

I expect him to say something cynical about whether or not it's true, or what happened after, but instead he says, "My girl wanted to be a bow-hunter. She was just learning when they killed her."

"I'm sorry, Haymitch."

"Her name was Indigo. Indigo Hardy. Everyone called her Digger. I loved her. I sometimes can't remember what she looked like. In my head, she looks like all of them." He says this without much emotion and starts to walk toward the water again.

I follow.

He doesn't stop until he gets to the far end of the patio, to the decorative little wall that hangs over a drop off to the beach. He looks over it. "Guess I made it to the end again," he says, and bends to pick up a stone. He throws it out into the emptiness, then sits down miserably. He's far away from anywhere he can do any harm, but he doesn't look much better than he did at the plaza. I feel like I should take him somewhere more fun, somewhere that will take his head away from everything that happened, but I don't think he'd come along with me if I tried.

I'm not sure _I'd_ come along with me.

I can't think of anything to do here, and Haymitch is unhelpful, just staring avidly across the water. There's a little automatic kiosk selling cameras for the view, and I buy one. I snap a picture of him there.

He looks up. "What's that about?"

"I don't know. I just… well, I guess I was just looking for something to do."

"Let me see."

Reluctantly - I have a strange feeling that he means to pitch it into the lake - I hand him the camera.

He looks at the picture on the little projector, then snorts and hands it back. "I look like the world's most pretentious poet. Do I really look like that?"

"Mostly." I frown. "Don't you see a lot of pictures of yourself?"

"Most of them aren't taken by friendly people. And the ones that are… they're careful to make me look exactly like they want me to."

"What about from when you were a kid?"

He looks up, surprised. "Effie, we didn't have money to keep food on the table, or fix the roof so it wouldn't rain inside, or let in the vermin. Almost no one in Twelve has anything like a camera, not even the merchant kids. Except maybe the shoemakers. They're pretty rich. The mines pay them for boots for everyone."

I look down, thinking of how shamed I felt that I had to wear second-hand clothes, or couldn't afford to have my hair done properly. Somehow, it doesn't seem like all that much. "Sorry," I say.

"What for? It's a different place. Different rules." He sighs. "Look, I know you're trying. And it does clear the head, being out here. But you don't need to entertain me."

"Can I take another picture?"

He forces a grin and says, "No." He pulls the camera back, almost playfully. "I'm taking one. How does this thing work?"

"I'm dressed in _play clothes!_"

"I can figure it out. We took pictures of Gilla before the interviews. Yeah… the button…"

A gust of wind comes up, and the hair on my long blue wig flies out. I grab at it and laugh at how silly I must look. Haymitch chooses this moment to snap the picture.

He hands me the camera. I look at the picture. If he looks like a pretentious poet, I look like a little girl.

But I haven't seen a picture like this for a while. The last time someone took my picture without me posing carefully for it, I was bloody and crying. Here, I don't quite look happy, laughter notwithstanding. I can't place the look on my face, but I look something like I look in my head.

I put the camera in my pocket. Maybe I'll print it out later.

Haymitch is looking out over the water again. Another gust ripples his clothes and tosses his loose black curls. "What's out there?" he asks.

"District Three is on the far side, I think," I say. I stand beside him, squinting out, wondering what he's seeing.

"Not just the lake, Effie. _Out there._ Is there anything other than this?"

He looks down at me. His eyes are unfocused and red, and something inside of them seems very young. We are standing close enough that the breeze carries his body heat to me before it dissipates.

I kiss him.

It isn't a grand plan. It just seems like the right thing to do.

He draws away, eyes wide, then puts his hands on my face and pulls me back to him, kissing me again, breathing my air like he's been drowning. I slide my arms around his waist and pull him close. I can feel that he wants me, and for once - for the first time since that day in school - it's all right with me. His hands come down to my hips, then slide up under my shirt. They're big, good, strong hands, and I'm not afraid that they're going to clamp down and hold me here if I try to get away, and I don't _want_ to get away. I want the kiss to go on forever.

Suddenly, he stops and pulls away from me, putting his hands on the tops of my arms to hold me back. His face is red, and he's breathing hard. I am, too. I can hear our breath, his in counterpoint to mine, above the lake wind.

We stand there for a long while, staring at each other.

Then he starts to laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**  
He lets go of me and turns away, locking his hands behind his neck and laughing wildly at the sky. "Is this going to be the fairy tale? Is this where Beauty saves the Beast?" He laughs louder and throws his arms out wide, embracing the air. "She's saved me! Look at that! The victor's all human again because of the power of True Love!" He turns to me. "Is that the story, Euphemia? Is that what you believe?"

I back away. The sun coming off the lake is too bright. It's stabbing at my eyes. I can't breathe.

"_Is_ it?" He laughs again. "Oh, Caesar's good. He's really good. But he forgot that I know those stories too. Only I know better than to believe them! You don't know any better, do you? You're just a kid. You believe everything. You don't know anything. Do you think you know anything?"

I try to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled-sounding squeak. I put my hands on my head, and I half expect them to come away bloody. I take a step back and run into the little wall, and sit down hard.

Haymitch continues to rave. "I know where you live. You live in a fairy tale. Some magical place where they tell you over and over again how good everything is. Feed you those little pills and make you go brainless. Is that what happened? And you want me to go brainless, too?"

"Stop it," I manage to choke out. My face is wet with tears that I didn't even realize I was crying. "Please, stop it."

"Not the way it was supposed to work, is it? I'm supposed to fall in love with you and fall in line! Is that the game, Euphemia? Is it?"

"It wasn't a game!" I say. I can barely hear myself. The words seem to come out over a whistling in my throat. "It wasn't a game. I swear it wasn't a game. I -" I can't seem to sit upright. I bend over and it shifts my weight, and I slide off the wall, down to the flagstones. I cover my head, waiting for the next barrage.

It doesn't come. I stay crouched behind my hands, my eyes covered.

Haymitch's shoes click over on the stones, and I can feel the heat from his body again - he's obviously crouching in front of me, because I can feel his breath on my hands - but he doesn't touch me. "Effie?"

"Go away. Leave me alone."

"Effie, I…"

Now he does reach out. I feel his hand hot on my wrist. I turn away. This will end up on television. I'll be all over the screens, crying and broken and dirty. People will laugh. It won't be as bad as Haymitch laughing, but it will be bad.

He touches my ankle.

I yank it away from him.

I hear him take in a deep, sharp breath, then his footsteps recede.

I don't look up.

I curl more deeply into myself. I can't get the sound of the laughter out of my head, even though I cover my ears. I hear his shoes again, but he doesn't come as close this time.

I have been down long enough that I'm starting to come back to my senses when I hear the car door slam. Someone is here. I wonder if someone has more to say to me.

A sharper sound, harder shoes on the flagstones. A voice says, "I'm going to have a long conversation with _you_ later," then the footsteps come closer and the voice, softer but right beside me, says, "Effie, it's okay. It's Caesar. I'm going to take you home."

I lower my hands.

Caesar Flickerman is bent over me, holding out one hand and smiling gently. Beyond him, I can see Haymitch, looking at the ground, his face red and haggard.

Caesar helps me up, and turns so that he's between Haymitch and me. He leads me to his car and puts me carefully into the passenger seat, then gets in on the driver's side.

As we pull away from the park, we pass Haymitch. He looks miserable.

"He called me from the public comm station," Caesar explains. "He told me what he did. I'm so sorry, Miss Trinket. I knew he was volatile. I shouldn't have put you in that position."

I turn to the window. "It's probably me. I shouldn't have kissed him. I'm stupid. I thought he wanted me. Why would he want me?" I wipe my face. "I'm being silly. It's not like he hurt me. He just laughed. I should be used to that. People always laughed at me. The boys at school said I didn't even know what I was doing."

"He most certainly hurt you," Caesar said. "More profoundly than I think he meant to. I want you to take the rest of the Games off, and we'll talk when they're over about what you want to do next."

"They're already over," I say. "Trill and Babra are dead. They didn't _lose_. I called their names, and they died. Just like Haymitch said. They're dead."

We pass a little overlook area, not very well kept up and empty in the middle of the Games. Caesar jerks the car around and pulls into it.

"My car isn't bugged," he says. "I go over it every day. There's no signal coming from it. Nothing attached to the hardware. No power draw on the communications systems. You can say that here. You can say anything here. But be careful what you say where anyone can hear, and _never_ say that at the Dreams compound."

I nod. I'm not stupid, no matter what Haymitch thinks, though I guess it was a little careless to say something like that to Caesar Flickerman, of all people.

He sits back in the driver's seat and rests with his hands on the wheel. "For what it's worth - and it is, quite frankly, not worth much to me right now - I think Haymitch lashed out at you out of a misguided sense of protectiveness. He's lost a lot of women." He shakes his head. "It's still inexcusable. I can't reassign you right now. You don't have enough experience."

"What about District Four? I mean, I know I don't have enough experience for an inner district, but isn't someone going to transfer there, and then there'll be a spot open somewhere else? I like Mr. Hedge. Maybe I could go to Seven."

Caesar shakes his head. "I've put a moratorium on female escorts for Blight. We went through three in a row with him after Gia left. I don't hire escorts to keep victors company in the bedroom."

"You told Haymitch you hired me for him."

"Not _that_ way."

I turn and look out the front window, out over the lake. I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them to me. "Why, then?"

"I like Haymitch. Usually. At the moment, I could happily toss him over the rail into the lake, but I usually like him. And he does much better - again, usually - with a decent person helping him out." He sighs. "And then there's you. I thought you'd do well with Haymitch."

"Why?"

"Because I've seen you playing dumb, Miss Trinket. I've seen you nodding along with things you know are wrong, and I've seen you pretending not to know things when you clearly do. I've seen you hesitate to mention things you've noticed when you should. I knew Haymitch wouldn't have any patience with that, and you need someone who needs you to be smart. It seemed like a good match." He rolls his eyes. "Apparently, too good." He smiles faintly at me. "It's been a long time since I was young, and I forgot how young you and Haymitch really are. I didn't consider the possibility that you would like one another enough to get into _this_ situation. I should have. And I should have realized what he would do about it. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I just thought you both needed a friend."

I don't say anything. I feel even more stupid for overreacting. "I'm okay," I say. "I know he did it because of his girl. Indigo. He said her name was Indigo. And she died. I should have realized - "

"Stop it," Caesar says. "You're the injured party in this little scenario. Understand him, that's fine, but don't start blaming yourself for his idiocy. Even he knows that he owns it. When he called me, he didn't say, 'Do you know what that girl did?' He said that he screwed things up, and he wouldn't blame you for wanting to leave, and you probably should. And that you needed a ride home, and he'd watch you and make sure you were okay until I got to you. None of which makes it okay. I just want you to know that everyone knows where the blame is. It's not on you." He looks at me keenly. "Do you need to talk? You seem better, but you were obviously very upset."

"I was being stupid," I repeat.

"No. Did something happen to you? Because I know Haymitch was cruel, but you seem…"

"I'm okay."

"Maybe I can help."

I look at him, and I wonder if I can tell him about what happened before I left school. He's a decent man, and he certainly seems to care about his employees. But he _is_ my boss. It's bad enough he saw me curled up and crying after Haymitch yelled at me. He doesn't need to know about the other. He already thinks I don't have enough experience for a bigger district. What would he think if he knew I went into hysterics just because someone pulled my wig off? "It's nothing," I tell him. "I just don't like to be laughed at."

"Neither does Haymitch," Caesar says. "He, of all people, should know better." He sighs and shakes his head. "Do you want to go home?"

I nod.

He thumbs the ignition, and we start moving again, going through the city streets, around the Games parties and the media crews (Caesar's windows are tinted, so they're unaware of us). He drives me up to the front of the Dreams compound and asks if I need him to come in with me. I consider it. Ten minutes ago, I couldn't have made it up the stairs to my room. In the end, I tell him again that I'm fine. I'll get to "fine" eventually, anyway.

Miss Meadowbrook and Domitia are watching the Games, and it _is_ mandatory viewing, so I sit with them. They're eating chocolate truffles and talking about the fall lines that are starting to come out of the fashion district. A new design house called Devoro has a dried fruit dress that it claims is still edible; Domitia has some bawdy ideas of where to wear it, and exactly who she wants to chew it off of her. She asks who I'd have chew it off.

"Oh, that's not really my style," I say.

"Oh, right, I forgot who I was talking to." She flutters her hand over her chest. "Who would you have ever so delicately nibble it away from you, while whispering sweet nothings into your ear, with romantic music playing in the background?"

"I don't know. It still sounds… kind of sticky."

"That's half the fun, honey," Domitia says.

"Let Euphemia be," Miss Meadowbrook tells her. "_Really_. I agree. And I'll bet it stains your skin, too, and gums up your hair. Not very sexy."

Other than the food trend, there seem to be quite a few houses coming out with pretty little tights that show the sides of the ankles, and a selection of pastel shades in wigs. The other big trend is shabby - ragged shirts and work clothes, made to look like District laborers. These wouldn't be for professional wear, anyway. They help me place orders. I have money now, plus my fashion stipend to keep on top of things, so I can get most of the things I want. Some of the truly pricey things, I might even be able to borrow for events, as long as I promise to have my picture taken.

Miss Meadowbrook realizes that I'm upset somewhere after the third catalog, though I don't tell her why, and promptly calls in what she calls "reinforcements" - half the occupants of the compound, by the looks of it. They tell me that they love me, and they're glad to have me. I take one of Miss Meadowbrook's little miracle pills, and it clears my head enough to realize that things are all right. If the worst thing to happen in my life is having a district boy laugh at me, I'm doing pretty well.

I watch the evening's broadcast curled up in Junius's arms, and I let him touch me as he likes. I'm _not_ a romance-addled little girl, no matter what Haymitch thinks.

Athena Burke gets one more kill before dying when the ground gives out beneath her. The inner district pack finds Daylily. The people betting on her are interviewed in the street.

Junius makes a disgusted sound. "There go this week's tips," he mutters. "I guess it was a longshot, anyway."

Harris Greaves is attacked by another mutt not long after this, but he defeats it. Domitia thinks he's cute.

By the end of mandatory viewing, we're down to the inner district kids (down the boy from Two), and Gershom Grimm from District Ten.

I help Miss Meadowbrook clean up.

"Do you feel better, sweetheart?" she asks.

"I feel clearer," I say. "Like things are where they're supposed to be again."

"It wasn't just about your tributes, was it?"

I shake my head.

She hugs me. "It's all right. I've been there. The man has the emotional intelligence of a head of cabbage."

"He yelled at me."

"Haymitch? Really?" She makes a frustrated sound. "Well, you can't let him get away with doing that. You need to stand up. You're a Capitol citizen, in a responsible job. You need to show him that you can straighten your back and look up again."

"I don't even want to see him."

"I've been _there_, too. I was angry at him. I don't remember why." She frowns. "But you have to let him know that you're not broken. He thinks we Capitol girls are fragile. He thinks _I'm_ broken."

"You?"

"Yes, me. Do I look broken to you?" She rolls her eyes hugely. "But the last time I saw Haymitch, he looked at me like he was holding one of those maudlin district funerals for me in his head. You need to get up on your feet and not let him think that, or he'll just dismiss you altogether."

I don't know if I can do this, or even if it's a good idea. I go to bed, but whatever is in the pills keeps me awake. I can hear the parties through the windows. People in costumes, carrying sparklers and twinkly little bell-showers, are passing by outside.

This is my city, my home.

I think of Babra, covered in coal dust, and of Trill, wanting to hide as much as he could. I think of him drowning in the mud at the Cornucopia. I think of the way Babra grabbed hold of my hand after I called her name.

She's gone now, too. Headed home in a box.

And I am awake and pitying myself because Haymitch raised his voice at me after I kissed him without so much as asking whether or not it was all right. I am worrying about my career, and where I might end up. I'm thinking about clothes. And they are still dead.

I toss and turn for the rest of the night. I'm not the only one. Toward the end of the Games, there are always a lot of people who stay up. I get up around three o'clock, put a simple wig on and go outside and sit on the curb in front of the compound. People are wandering around with their eyes unnaturally bright, their smiles so wide that they suggest the skulls beneath them. They pass around pills and bottles, and whoop and holler at the night sky. These Games seem like they'll be short - no one is really hidden now - but during the longer Games, the hospitals start filling up with partiers who haven't paid attention to what they've been taking. There are public service announcements about how the Games are meant to celebrate the ongoing life of the Capitol, despite the attempt to kill it, and how Capitol citizens shouldn't risk those precious saved lives… but I don't remember any year where the Games went on for more than a week and a half that there haven't been at least a few deaths from the party scene.

When I was twelve, not long after my parents' marriage contract expired and my father moved out, there was an outright suicide. A woman climbed to the top of the Green Tower monument - the spire that stands where the bombed out school was - and jumped to her death. The story in the papers was that she'd placed a bet on a losing tribute and lost everything, but the whispered story, the one that never saw the light of day on the air, was that she'd gone crazy, and decided the girl was her own stillborn child, miraculously brought back to life, only to be killed again. No one could imagine how she thought a skinny District girl with no particular talent was really a Capitol child.

I don't remember what I thought at the time. But now, I understand it. Babra could have been my sister. I honestly don't see any reason that she couldn't be.

I shiver. I understand why the Games have to happen. I know about the war. I know how many people died in the Dark Days (once, after I was angry about a tribute's death, I had to spend a whole afternoon in school writing the number down over and over until it sank in), and I know we can't let it happen again. Even the districts are better off for not letting another war happen. They lost almost half their population, too.

_Leave the Games._

The thought comes smoothly, and out of nowhere.

It's a good solution. No one is forcing me to stay. I'm sure Caesar Flickerman will give me a good recommendation to some other boss. I could wait tables at a restaurant, or maybe even manage the schedule. I could work for one of the design houses. I could do _anything_.

I could go back to being like everyone else. Watching the Games, rooting for the prettiest and strongest ones, or the ones with the wonderful stories. I'd _never_ have to look at Haymitch Abernathy again, or hear him call me names and accuse me of… I don't even know what he thought I was doing.

Only, in the end, it's not about Haymitch, is it?

_They outrank me_, he told me on the day of the Reaping, when Babra needed someone to hold her hand.

I go to the front steps and lean against the wall of the compound, resting but not sleeping, until dawn. The parties go on around me. Sometimes, people bring me things to eat. I take them.

I'm not aware of thinking. My head is glassy from lack of sleep, but sleep is never really close. I let my city spin around me.

I am calm in the morning.

I throw out yesterday's play clothes, and put on a smart yellow dress, with a contrasting green wig done up in a more grown-up style. I paint my face.

I go to work.

I don't have to. There's nothing for me to do, but I think some limits need to be set.

Haymitch is in the Viewing Center, looking somewhat at a loss with no one to help. Surprisingly, he's not drunk. I suppose I thought he'd be half passed out back at the training center apartment. His eyes tip up in my direction, at first not recognizing me and moving on, but then he looks back.

He stands perfectly still and looks at his feet.

I go to him. "We should talk," I say.

He nods, and we go to one of the empty sponsor meeting rooms. With so few tributes left, there are plenty to go around. He sits down at a table. I sit across from him. He is fiddling with something on his wrist - an old, colorless knotted string with two buttons tied onto it. His old district token.

"Effie," he starts, "I'm sorry. I know you asked Caesar for a transfer, and if one comes up, I'll write you a good recommendation."

I nod. "I don't have enough experience for another district. And the tributes from District Twelve need an escort they can trust."

He nods. "I want…" He forces himself to look up at me. "I want you to stay."

"I'll stay," I say. I screw up my courage. I think of Babra jumping on the back of that gator mutt. If she can face that, I can face an ill-tempered victor. "But I won't be berated. Do you understand that? Don't ever do that again, or I'll quit my job in the middle of the Games, no matter who needs me."

"I was going to promise -"

"I'm not going to believe a promise. I'll believe what I see."

"You'll _see_, then, if you like that better. It won't happen again."

I can't think of what else I mean to say. I feel like I should end with some kind of dramatic exit, telling him that it's not about him, that I don't care at all about what happened before he started yelling yesterday. I don't do it.

He bites his lip. "Effie, there's something else that can't happen again."

My courage breaks. It goes off inside me like a squeezed balloon, sending out little bursts of fear flying randomly around my body. "The kiss," I say.

"The kiss," he repeats.

I sniff and try to speak coldly, but it comes out shaky. "No worries. I promise, I won't be doing _that_ again."

"They'd take you away in a heartbeat."

I frown. "You're paranoid."

He holds up his hand. "This string belonged to Digger. They fried her on an electric fence. That's not paranoia."

I look away from it.

Something touches my arm.

The string is sitting against my wrist. I look up. "What…?"

"I want you to keep it for me," he says. "And if I ever come close to doing anything as lousy as I did yesterday, you show it to me, and you remind me that it's not the way she'd ever have me treat a girl. She'd walk right out on me if she heard about it."

I move my hand slowly and pick it up. It has a queerly substantial feel to it, even though it's frayed and faded, and probably wasn't all that strong in the first place. I put it on. It's sized to his wrist and comes halfway up my forearm, but I don't let it fall off. "I'll do it, you know," I say. "I'll hold Indigo over your head." I don't know if I will or not. I probably won't. But he's given me this ghost-girl as an ally, and I don't have so many that I can refuse to work with any of them.

"And I'll deserve it." He rubs his head absently. "Look, I know Caesar gave you the rest of the Games off. You don't need to be here. I'll work my contacts while I'm here."

"I'll work them off-season," I tell him. "I'm already going to a picnic in the Grove. And I think I can get you some people I know in the fashion district."

"That would be great."

This isn't how the conversation is supposed to end. Mundanity and shop talk seem somehow off-kilter… but at the same time, they're not.

I stand and go to the door.

"Effie?"

"What?" I look over my shoulder.

He smiles at me awkwardly. "It was a great kiss. Just… if you care."

"I know," I say. "I was there for it, remember?"

There's nothing else to say.

I leave the Viewing Center to go home. I don't come back for the rest of the Games.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**  
The Games go on for another four days, though they're mostly taken up by the inner district alliance's unsuccessful hunt for the boy from District Ten. They are routinely attacked by mutts, but they've clearly learned to deal with it. At one point, Harris cuts the head off of a mutt bird (not unlike the birds that attacked Maysilee Donner, though white instead of pink) and shakes it at the sky. He yells something, but we don't hear what it is. There's a great deal of speculation on the street about what he says. Having been privy to a few of his outbursts, I'm guessing it had something to do with the District Four genetic sweep, but of course, that's not public knowledge. They haven't even mentioned Glass's death yet.

Since none of this is very interesting to watch for long stretches, the programming during mandatory viewing has a lot of filler material.

Claudius Templesmith does a special on victors behaving badly, which features Haymitch rather prominently. To Miss Meadowbrook's embarrassment, it includes him sneaking out of her bedroom in the middle of the night, along with a general run of his drunken escapades. This segues to a live shot of him in a bar, huddled over drinks with Chaff, though neither of them is doing anything especially scandalous at the moment. We also see Brutus dancing half-naked with about a dozen different good-looking men, Mags teasing the cameras at the District Four seaside resort by ducking behind a planter then waving her bikini top around, and Berenice Morrow being arrested for morphling abuse in District Six.

Other than that, there are hours of Games analysis, replays from favorite Games in the past (they don't play anything from either Quell, oddly), and interviews with the victors who are in town, but not mentoring. There are features on the districts that the remaining tributes come from. We've seen plenty of One, Two, and Four, but the feature on Ten is something new, and sparks a barbeque craze on the street for a day. Some of the victors with performing talents perform on Caesar's stage.

People get restless.

On the fourth day after we lose Babra, the inner district kids finally catch up with District Ten and kill him quickly. Tourmaline and Lucia, who've been chafing under Harris's hard direction - and who are sick of the mutt attacks that seem to be directed at him - choose to attack him as soon as the cannon goes off.

Harris kills them both, and becomes the fifty-ninth victor of the Hunger Games. He's managed to get through the Games without a single injury. This means that the wrap-up is just as quick as the Games. I go to City Center and watch with several other people from Capitol Dreams as the official version is released. There's very little in it about Trill and Babra. It's all about Harris defeating mutts and ordering his alliance partners around.

There is a banquet that night (I am not invited, and neither is Haymitch), and the next morning, the victors have to catch their trains home with the bodies of their tributes.

I go to the station.

Haymitch is quite drunk, but he doesn't harass me. He's sullen. He says hello. He's sitting between the two coffins. I open them to say goodbye. Babra's hair has been carefully combed, but her poor face is slashed in four places. The wounds are open, but not bleeding. I think I'll see those cuts in my head for a long time.

Trill is cleaned up. He doesn't look like he's sleeping. He is obviously dead. But he has no visible wounds. I bend down and kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

Haymitch puts his hand on my shoulder, and I turn to him. There is nothing of our frenzied kiss here. I feel like a small child in a haunted house, and he's a child there with me, and we're just trying to convince each other that there are no ghosts. We hold onto each other for a long while and don't talk, then the District Six crew of the train tells me that I have to leave.

I go back to my life, and Haymitch goes back to his.

A week after the victors leave, there's a small announcement in the news that long-time District Twelve escort Ausonius Glass passed away after "a sudden illness" in District Four, where he'd been recently reassigned. No mention is made of murder, or of the missing escort who committed it. I know I'm not allowed to discuss it.

The Games escorts all attend the celebration of Glass's life, but no one there seems to have any fond memories of him. His ashes are scattered. There's no cemetery in the Capitol, though there are a few memorial gardens for prominent citizens. I know that they exist in the Districts, because the tributes are buried, but I think that must be one of the punishments they're supposed to endure - the constant reminders of death. In the Capitol, we just have the life celebration, then the scattering, which is done in something like a fireworks show above the desert outside the city. The ashes go up in a rocket, which explodes in the lower atmosphere and releases them amid a shower of bright sparks.

I start looking for an apartment the next day.

"You know," Miss Meadowbrook says as we go through listings, "you do have a nice salary, and it sounds like Caesar Flickerman means to keep you around. Maybe you should look for a house."

"What do I need with a house? It's just me."

"I have a house, and it's just me." She smiles. "Of course, I stay here most of the time because it's so lonely wandering around in there. But you may as well own something substantial while you're staying somewhere else. You _will_ be staying with us sometimes, won't you?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. Another girl will probably want my bed."

"I suppose…"

"You could visit me sometimes. Nothing wrong with a new view."

"You wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all."

But when I get my apartment, I don't end up seeing much of Miss Meadowbrook. She helps me find it and arranges for the boys to help me move in. She even helps me buy furniture and get through all of the paperwork with the bank. But she retreats to Capitol Dreams when she sees that I've framed the picture I took of Haymitch at the lake, and put it up on the little glass knick-knack shelves by the fireplace, along with a few others. (I thought long and hard about it, given what happened moments after I took the picture, but I decide that I want a picture of him, and it's the only decent one I've got. The picture of me, I put in a drawer.)

I have my own place.

For a few weeks, it is my pet project. I rearrange the furniture several times, I set up my closet, I paint the walls. But after a while, I realize that I'm completely alone. The neighbors are all a good deal older than I am. I miss Capitol Dreams.

I turn eighteen. Most of the people I know give me little things for the apartment. Domitia gives me pictures of all of my friends. Glaucia helps me suit up my kitchen. Junius offers to "decorate the bedroom for a few nights," but when I tell him to get over it, just gives me a very pretty painting for the wall. Leon doesn't have much money, but he works as a carpenter, and builds me a nice seat in my bay window.

Other than things for the apartment, Miss Meadowbrook gives me a session with her favorite designer and two dresses of my choice, and Caesar Flickerman sends me flowers. Three days after my birthday, I get a package from Haymitch. It has absolutely delicious cookies baked by a friend of his, and, of all things, a book of fairy tales. There's a picture on the front of a black-haired princess wishing on a star, and beautiful painted illustrations every few pages inside. On the inside cover, he's written, _Don't let me wreck them for you. They're good stories, and believe it or not, I like them. Always, H._

I have never owned a book before. I've borrowed them, of course - it's not that I don't _read_ - but books are so much paper, and everyone talks about how they break up decorating schemes, so I never bought one to keep. I feel quite sophisticated. I decide to read one story each week until I'm finished. I'm not sure what to do with it after that.

There are two major projects that I feel I need to take care of. The first is a failure. I apply to get a personal comm, on the argument that my victor needs to be able to reach me during the Games, but I'm turned down. Caesar tells me not to take it personally; escorts are rarely approved for them. Most government officials don't get them. It's all about security. "They like to keep it limited," he says. "I'm not sure it needs to be, technically speaking, but since it's used by the government, I think they like to avoid overheard chatter."

He knows a lot about the subject. Communications history is apparently his hobby. He tells me an unbelievable story about a time when people routinely carried personal comms, all on different systems, but that was before a lot of the atmosphere was destroyed, and things called "satellites" fell to Earth. I don't understand all of it, but they used to be able to get around the curve of the earth without cables. When the satellites went down, they had to re-create the entire system, and the people doing it, according to Caesar, "decided that personal communications weren't a priority." The Capitol has the limited system that the government uses, set up with the antenna stations around the city; the districts have nothing.

At any rate, I don't get a personal comm. I try to call Haymitch on the regular cabled phone to tell him (since I promised I would), but his line just rings and rings. I finally write him a letter, and he writes back to tell me that he ripped the phone out of the wall years ago, and has no intention of putting it back.

My other major project is more successful. I go to a doctor, and he's able, with a series of intensive treatments, to get rid of the scars on my head, or at least minimize them enough that I could go without a wig if I want to. This takes four months, during which I'm as bald as a cue ball under my wigs, and my head stings like fire while the chemicals work on dissolving the scar tissue. Even after it's over, though, I can't seem to go without my wig without thinking that people are pointing at me and laughing.

I'm a month into this process when Firmina Sanders sends me an official invitation to her picnic in the Grove. It's in honor of Founding Day, so I wear a wig in the red and black of the flag, though it's far too warm and sunny to wear matching clothes. Instead, I choose a lightweight white and yellow dress.

I make a lot of contacts, and set up sponsor meetings for Haymitch during training days for next year. There are a lot of younger relatives present - people who would never live somewhere as out-of-fashion as the Grove, but who don't seem to mind enjoying their families' hospitality. Miss Sanders' neighbor has a large swimming pool, and the younger people at the picnic drift over there. Miss Sanders makes a point of taking me over and introducing me to her grand-nephew, a comic named Genesius Arlen. We spend the rest of the picnic together, and he takes me home. He's actually a very nice man, and we date for a few weeks. After we break up, I watch his act in clubs obsessively, hiding in the shadows, waiting for him to start telling jokes about me. He doesn't, and when he spots me one evening, he promises that he won't. As far as I know, he keeps that promise.

In November, I get another letter from Haymitch, this one all business. Lepidus has gone into retirement, to work exclusively in his fashion house. Atilia will be going with him, since she decided to remain with his label rather than his Games team. I need to be the point person for finding a new stylist team, and need to talk to Caesar Flickerman about it. Haymitch has also sent him a letter, authorizing me to make the decisions in case there is any doubt.

Caesar laughs at this when I get to his office. "Yes, I got the letter. He spent a good four paragraphs explaining that he trusts you, and there will be no need to second guess you. He'll sign whatever you decide on… it was quite adamant for a matter that really only required him to sign the form I sent."

"He doesn't want a say?"

"No, Miss Trinket. He just trusts you to respect what he wants."

"Oh."

He calls his secretary, Peri, to bring in a pile of portfolios. "Now, our custom is to allow the new stylist to choose a district, and the remaining stylists will be shuffled around in a draft. In practice, the escorts usually woo the new stylist to choose their districts. I don't know how much luck you'll have." He hands me one of the portfolios. "The new woman is Andronica Finley. She'll be bringing her business partner, Evodia. Do you think she would be a good match for Twelve?"

I look at the pictures. I personally like the clothes, but she seems very much in love with fiddly little embellishments. I don't know how well she'd mesh with Twelve.

"I'm not sure," I say. I bite my lip. "You know, I was looking last year. The stylist from Three isn't bad at all."

"Well, the district that's lost the stylist gets the first 'draft pick,' so to speak, so if the new stylist doesn't choose Twelve, you'll get the choice of the rest of the field. I'd advise you to meet with all of them, though."

"Of course! I'd want one who wants a chance to work with Twelve. If they feel like they've been stolen away, they won't do their best work."

Caesar nods, pleased. "Very good. We'll have a lunch tomorrow for everyone to meet the new stylist, and all of the old ones. You're new, so you may have a time of it with them, but I think you'll be fine. Is this your first off-season duty?"

"No. I've been working with sponsors."

"Haymitch lets you near his sponsors? He _does_ trust you."

I smile. I take home the portfolios from all of the stylists, and stay up late studying them. I like a lot of the costumes, but none are screaming "Twelve" to me.

Lunch the next day is in the viewing center lounge. I try to talk to Andronica - or even Evodia - and get a cold shoulder when they learn I work for District Twelve, which makes me think they aren't that good a match, anyway. I'm not terribly impressed with the young stylist from Three when I meet him, though at least he talks to me. He thinks that District Twelve might need "special attention," given their unsavory mentor. I smile politely and move on.

Andronica seems to be heavily involved in conversations with the escorts from One and Four. The District Five escort was promoted to District Four, and now Five has a new boy. I try to talk to him, but he's busy trying to get Evodia's attention. I'll make friends with him later, I guess. He'll probably need some help next year.

The current stylists for One and Four steer clear of me when I go near them, which I take to mean that they're not interested in District Twelve, which means that I'm not interested in them. I guess maybe I _should_ try - they wouldn't be working in the inner districts if they weren't good - but I think they wouldn't give us everything. I want to make the choice right.

I end up talking to the stylist from District Nine, Philippa Simms, for most of the meeting. She talks a lot about how much she respects the wheat farmers, and the hard, back-breaking hours that they work. I tell her what little I know about coal mining - I decide that I have to learn more - and we have a pretty decent conversation. I'm not blown away by her designs, but I decide that, if she doesn't run screaming, she's someone we can work with.

At the end of the lunch, Andronica chooses District One. Caesar announces that I have first pick, and I see stylists backing toward the shadows and hiding behind plants.

I ignore them. Philippa isn't running forward eagerly, but she's not hiding, either. I call her.

She and her assistant smile bravely and come over to join me. The rest of the escorts choose in a random, lottery-drawn order. District Five has an early pick and snags the former District One stylist, and District Nine picks up the District Five man, who was looking a little panicked. Everyone else just speaks for the stylists they already have.

I write to Haymitch to tell him my decision. He agrees that the choices were limited, and is happy with the criteria I used. I ask him where I can learn about coal mining, and he sends me a book they use in school. _If you come up some time before the Games, you can have a tour of the mines like we used to get in school. Philippa, too, if she wants to. But you'll have to wear a breathing filter. You don't want to breathe in the dust. And bring work boots. If you don't have any, bring money to buy them from Cartwright's. Those crazy shoes you wore last year won't cut it in the mines._

Philippa and I discuss it, and I do put in for a travel permit, but they don't approve it. I apologize to Haymitch. He brushes it off, and sends permission for me to use his Capitol library privileges. He gives me a list of books and films recommended by the mining safety teacher at the District Twelve school.

I don't understand _everything_ I read and watch, and even what I do understand is completely foreign to me. Giant drills, blasting caps, and a giant tub of water that somehow separates coal from trash rock. Dirty men and women in dark and cramped tunnels, with railroad tracks that run deep into the earth. All of the pictures show them looking miserable. I wonder if they all _are_ miserable. I suppose I would be if I had to work down there in all that gloom.

I put together the images that I think are most interesting: The rickety looking supports that line the tunnels, the men with dirty faces but clean eyes under their goggles, the black water that's spun out of the freshly bathed coal. (I have to double-check why on earth they wash coal, but it turns out to be mundane - they use floatation to separate the coal from the trash-rock.) I feel like I'm only getting part of the picture. I want to ask Haymitch more about it, but he doesn't like talking about Twelve, and he warned me that they'd never see me as anything other than the person who calls their children to die. I'll have to rely on other sources. Maybe I should talk to their young mayor when I go for the Reaping.

I get some pamphlets meant for officials and liaisons being sent to Twelve, but these are mostly glossy pictures of the small, walled compound adjacent to the mining office, where the rare officials live and are advised not to leave unless it's necessary. No reason is given for this.

I take everything I've gathered to Philippa's studio.

She frowns at the pictures. "I don't know how much I can do with this. They're in coveralls and they _are_ head-to-toe dirt." She thinks about it. "Look at the way it's perfectly clean around the eyes, though. Maybe I can work with that somehow. And the mines themselves - the way the light just gets swallowed up in the black. Maybe…" She bites her lip, and sends her files away with a little boy she has sweeping the floors ("He's desperate to learn about designing, and I hate cleaning," she explains, "so it works out well").

She has her winter show to do, but promises that she'll have sketches for me by the beginning of April.

There is nothing else I need to do until then.

I spend the winter enjoying the Capitol. I ski with my friends. I go to shows in the theater district. Miss Meadowbrook is starring in a musical. She plays a liaison assigned to a district after the Dark Days (it's hinted to be District Seven, since there are a lot of woods around, but never identified per se). The people are sullen and beaten, but she gets them cheered up and happy to be in the world again. All of the reviewers love her. I see it three times.

I go to the banquet at the President's Mansion when Harris's Victory Tour comes to town. He'll be in the Viewing Center next year, so I make an effort to meet him. He seems to have calmed down a bit since the Games. He tells me that he's sorry about what he did to Trill. "I'm sorry about a lot, actually," he mutters before catching a stern look from his mentor and etching on an unconvincing smile. I wonder if he really is sorry. I think of Trill, face down in the mud, drowning before he reached the Cornucopia.

I wonder if he'd have done the same to Harris, if he'd had the skill and the chance. And I realize something: Every victor in the Viewing Center has killed children from the districts of every other victor. They find a way to deal with it. I guess I need to find a way as well. It's the nature of the Games.

I can't think of anything else to say, so I ask, "Is your mother all right?"

"Yeah. She's good. They really only kept her until - " He blanches, realizing at the same time I do that I asked about something that's not on the record. "Well, she was sure sorry she missed the goodbye hour. That's all."

I go to Philippa's show, and make a point of ordering three outfits. It's not exactly a rule, but everyone knows that escorts should wear their stylists' lines. I get my picture taken, and in March, I'm a small part of a spread in a magazine about Games fashions. To my surprise, people write in to the next issue and compliment me. They love my wigs. I guess it's not bad that I still feel odd without them.

When spring comes, I visit Philippa's studio again. She's been very busy since the fashion spread, but she has her Games sketches ready. She's got the tributes in black this year, instead of in variations of the coveralls, and she'll be working their make-up to highlight the way the miners' eyes seem clean when everything else is covered with dust. There will also be little bits of trick cloth that will light up in a certain spectrum, but disappear as soon as the light changes. It's interesting, technically, but I'm not sure it'll get much attention. I smile and tell her it's wonderful, but I'm a little concerned. It's my first major choice as an escort. I'm nervous.

I set up six more sponsor meetings for Haymitch. They're new people, not his usual run of old women. They're younger and more fashionable, have more money that they're willing to throw around, and will get more opportunities to talk up the tributes they're sponsoring. I've vetted them to make sure they're not going to do anything that will make him fly off the handle. They all seem decent. Now, I just have to hope that Haymitch won't do anything to set _them_ off. I'm not looking forward to having a conversation with him about proper Capitol manners. These new people will not be as charmed as the Daughters by a backwoods accent and a faint, daring whiff of naughtiness. They'll also expect the tributes to be polished.

I think Haymitch will do as I suggest. The money will help his tributes, and if there's one thing I'm absolutely sure about, it's that he cares about them.

Caesar gives the final production team assignments two weeks before the Reaping, and I meet with our cameramen and site producers several times at Games Headquarters. Since we won't get there until the morning of the reaping this year, the schedule will be tight. I get everything down to the minute. I spend a lot of time on the phone with Mayor Undersee, to make sure everything on the ground is in place. I also learn that his daughter has picked up several words, and will be reciting poetry any day now.

We all board the train early in the morning the day before. Philippa has loaded a car with wardrobes in several sizes, but she stays behind to get a start on the costumes, so that all they'll need is quick alterations when we get back.

I stay up a good part of the night worrying that something will go wrong. (I don't really count Haymitch being drunk as part of this; I'm assuming it in my calculations, and have some pills in my purse to speed up the process of getting it out of his system.) I find myself wandering to the cold car at the back, where Haymitch's chair is set up between two platforms, which will most likely bear two coffins at the end of the Games. I stare at it for a long time.

The train gets in to District Twelve at around nine-thirty in the morning, and I deploy the team into the square. My plan is to go to Victors' Village and get Haymitch up in time to get him presentable, but Mayor Undersee stops me. He's carrying his little girl.

"Danny Mellark collected him this morning," he says. "Wanted to sober him up. It's been a bad few weeks. He's up at the bakery now." The baby reaches out and grabs at my wig. "Sorry," the mayor says, grinning. "I think she just wanted to touch the pretty lady."

"Pid-lay," Madge agrees.

I disentangle her fingers. Her hand is chubby and warm. Someday, her name will be in the glass balls that have already been set up on the stage. I smooth away a bit of her blond hair, then pull myself away and go to the bakery to find my boss.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**  
The bakery - a shabby kind of wooden building with an apartment upstairs - is very busy on reaping morning, running this way and that. The baker's wife snaps orders back to the kitchen and runs the till. She looks up at me with undisguised irritation and says, "He's in back."

I go behind the counter and into the kitchen. The baker nods to me and gives me a distracted smile, and jerks his chin toward a door that leads to the back yard, where two little boys are playing in a mud puddle. Haymitch is sitting in a ratty old chair with a baby about Madge's size in his lap. He's telling a story, and I stand behind the screen to listen.

"…so they finally came on the princess, and she was all witched up, in a cage made of… I don't know, let's say it was made of rubies. How'd that be? And she was witched up to be quiet, but Jack and all his little helpers had the tricks they'd been collecting, and one by one, they met that old witch and beat her at all her own tricks - "

"How'd they do it, Haymitch?" the oldest of the boys calls. "Was it with the flyin' boat?"

"Don't cheat, Jonadab. You've been listening. You know what tricks they had."

"Drinkwell drunk the creek dry," Jonadab says, coming over and sitting on the steps. "And Runwell won the race."

"See, you've been listening. And they all grabbed up the princess, and they put her in the flying boat, and they took her home, and Jack won her hand forever and ever."

"Tell another one!" Jonadab says, then looks up. "Hey, there's a princess."

Haymitch looks up and smiles a little blearily. "Oh, look - there's Princess Effie Trinket, her very own self. She's way better than me. Smells better, anyway. And she's much _much_ prettier." He holds the baby out to Jonadab. "You take your brothers upstairs like your daddy said. It's time for me to go."

I don't think Jonadab is big enough to hold a biggish baby, but he manages all right - if "all right" includes holding the baby facing forward, with his feet almost touching the ground… they actually skim on Jonadab's muddy bare feet, and he moves him by swinging him side to side, pretending to walk. The baby doesn't seem to mind much. "C'mon, Eddie," he says.

I hold the door open, and the three boys go in beside me. Jonadab herds them through another door, and I hear them thumping up the stairs.

"Are they all right to be alone?" I ask.

Haymitch shrugs. "Danny's got one of the Purdy girls in to keep them in line while he and Mir deal with reaping day. Traded her some bread for it. I was just entertaining them while she got their breakfast ready, anyway." He looks up at the window. "Just don't call the Purdy girl, all right?"

I shake my head. A teenage girl watching the children for a loaf of bread. In the Capitol, a child care worker would earn enough in a morning to buy groceries for a few days… and she'd be a trained adult.

I decide not to engage this.

"I brought some pills to sober you up. Mayor Undersee says it's been bad."

"Merle's got his nose in where it doesn't belong."

I fish out the pills and give him two, which he dry swallows. "What's been going on?"

"You think something has to be going on? That's sweet."

"Haymitch."

He sighs. "Your nose isn't where it belongs either."

"Fine. You need to get dressed for the reaping."

"It's just that Babra's little sister passed on. Measles. The grocers don't have any kids now. I had to buy groceries. It was… what do you say to them? Measles took one kid, and I took the other. Who am I killing this year?"

"_You're_ not killing anyone," I tell him. "Come on. Get up. I suppose the outfit will do for the reaping if we straighten it out and get it buttoned properly - and put on a jacket to hide the stains, I suppose - and I brought you some new clothes on the train for the Capitol."

He pulls himself up from the old chair. He sways a little bit, and I catch his arm to steady him. He raises his hand to my face, then touches my cheek lightly and leans in to kiss me.

I make myself pull away. Given that he smells like he hasn't bathed in a week, it's not all that hard. "You'll thank me for not letting you do that when you sober up."

He grins. "You have a good spine on you when you want to."

"Well, I started to suspect I might need one."

I reach out to steady him, and lead him around the outside of the house, so we won't have to deal with the crowd in the bakery, though Haymitch stops at a window to wave to the baker and let him know we're leaving.

I take Haymitch to the press tent to get some make up on him and get his clothes straightened out (technically, that's not in their job description, but no one wants us to look bad), and spend the next hour getting everything sorted out. I go back to Haymitch - now more sober and looking better put together - and go over the sponsor meetings I have set up for him. He sees a few of the names and makes a great show of groaning, but I remind him that they have serious money to give away, and he can manage to be polite for a few hours. I promise that they aren't the sponsors he calls "trolls" - sponsors that are giving money to young kids for all the wrong reasons.

Everything is in place. I check the racks of reaping cards to make sure they haven't been tampered with (they're coated with a trace material that changes color on handling, and none of them show more than the little bumps and brushes that would be expected), then have them emptied into the large glass balls that I draw from. I see the names rush by beneath the glass, and I know they're all attached to real children, real families.

I blink it away. Maybe one of them will come back a victor.

I go to the stage. The mayor introduces me.

I reach into the bowl.

These are the names I call:

For the sixtieth Games, I call Hecky Sheehan and Mercy Dickson. They're both black haired children with bright gray eyes, and in Philippa's costumes, they look eerily ghost-like. It's striking, but a bad portent. They both die in the fighting at the Cornucopia, and I spend the rest of the Games running errands while Haymitch tries to help his friends among the mentors. It's the year that District Eight gets its second winner - a scrappy, strong little fifteen-year-old girl named Cecelia. She never starts any of the fights she gets into, but she finishes them brutally. It comes down to a fight with a larger boy, and she wins by sheer virtue of agility: She's able to climb a tree that confounds him and fire down the rocks in her backpack until she's knocked him out. She finishes him off with a savage cut from his own knife, and screams at the sky. It takes three weeks in rehabilitation before she's presentable for closing events. Haymitch follows my instructions for the first week and meets with sponsors, but after that, he goes drinking with Chaff, and I mainly see him on television, acting like an idiot.

I see him again on the morning the train leaves, sitting between the bodies. We don't hug this year.

After the Games, I continue making contact with sponsors, and work several parties for Capitol Dreams. I fill in for Miss Meadowbrook as house mother for a little while, while she films a romantic comedy that will go on to be a huge hit. I work with Philippa, and when I'm photographed in a red dress from her winter collection, I end up covered by all the fashion reporters. The tabloid _Games Gab_ interviews me about clothes.

Spring comes up on me quickly, and along with it, the next reaping.

In the Sixty-First Games, I call Donkid Magill and Windy Megenry, another pair of black-haired, skinny children. I try to teach them table manners, but they won't learn, and when they're caught on television during training stuffing their faces full of fruit with their bare hands, I get calls from sponsors saying that they've decided to switch their sponsorships to a different district. I get into a fight about this with Haymitch, since he told me to "lay off on the trivia," and the kids hear it. Donkid asks us to stop screaming because we sound like his parents, and says that the sponsors don't matter anyway, since District Twelve goes down before they can be useful.

Haymitch and I spend the rest of the training forcing ourselves not to argue, and trying to convince Donkid and Windy that they have a good chance, which isn't true, as they both insist on going for weapons at the Cornucopia. They try to help each other, and they actually make it as far as the piled up armory, but they're small and weak, and the inner district alliance cuts them down without a second thought. The eventual winner, a District One girl named Dazzle, is the one who kills Windy. It's her first kill of the Games, so her death is played over and over during the Games, and preserved for posterity in the Games reel. She's even on the cover, with Dazzle holding a knife above her. Dazzle is beautiful, and a popular victor. The cover even becomes a poster, which hangs in a lot of teenage boys' bedrooms.

I sit with Haymitch on the train with them for a little while, but he doesn't acknowledge me that year.

I have a hard time reaching a lot of Haymitch's regular sponsors over the year following the Games. The new ones I found for him aren't happy with two early losses in a row, and the older ladies, for all of their fondness, don't have money to throw away. They promise that they'll sponsor if it turns out the children need it.

I spend most of that year dating a young man named Nicanor Bales. He brings up the idea of a marriage contract in March, but I tell him no. He doesn't show up for dinner after that, and I find all of his clothes moved out the next day. He doesn't return my calls. I dream I'm in the arena, looking for him, but when I find him, he's turned on me. He rips off my wig and pins me down and stabs me. I wake up sweaty and crying.

The stylist from District Six retires, and the new stylist, a flashy woman named Tigress, chooses District Two. I get a low number in the lottery, and we lose Philippa back to District Nine. By the time I choose, there are only three stylists left, and we end up with District Ten's stylist, Therinus May. He asks me if I have the pattern for authentic coveralls from the mines.

I write to Haymitch. The return letter is clearly written deep in his cups. I can barely read it, but from what I can decipher, he's taking it philosophically. I write back and tell him to sober up before reaping. He doesn't return that letter, and when I come in the spring, I find him passed out in Victors' Village. I ask why he didn't go stay with his friend. He tells me that he's been exiled from the bakery. "Got Danny drunk again," he mutters. "Mir kicked me out. Said I can't come back at all. And Danny agreed." He sniffs. "Says he's someone's dad now, and he can't go out like a kid anymore. _My_ dad came home drunk pretty near every night, and I turned out okay. I'm a _vig-dor._. Isn't that what you're s'posed to be? In't it the thing everyone's s'posed to want his kids to turn out like?"

I sponge him down and wash his hair. He's so filthy that I can't even imagine a sexual context to it, even though he's naked, and - as usual when he's drunk - prone to being physically affectionate with me. He tells me more about the baker and his wife (apparently, there was a separation, and she thinks he cheated, and somewhere or other, there's a baby involved who isn't _really_ involved, but the wife thinks she is, and… it just goes on and on, and I don't really follow it.) I manage to pour him into his clothes and get a couple of dry-out pills in him. I wish they'd invent something that would stop him from getting drunk in the first place, but this is the best I can do for now. I take the cart I borrowed and get him back into town just in time for the reaping to begin.

The kids for the Sixty-Second Games are a miner's son named Kelman Killough, and the only daughter of the family that runs a second-hand clothing shop. Her name is Dotty Hallissey, and she has curly blond hair and freckles on her nose. Those freckles and curls become something of a fad after the parade.

Dotty ignores Haymitch and dies at the Cornucopia. Kelman does as he's told, but has terrible luck finding clean water in the industrial wasteland of the year's arena. Haymitch manages to guide him to the next city block with a parachute dropped in the right direction, but he's so thirsty that he forgets to use his purifiers. He languishes with a stomach parasite for three days, and seems almost relieved when the boy from Six finds him and drowns him in the same pool that poisoned him.

It looks at the end as if Six might have a third winner, maybe even one who's not strung out on morphling. He disarms the girl from Two - Enobaria Fells, who's been pretty brutal herself through the Games - and jumps her, his knife raised. She rolls at the last second, getting him off balance, then jumps on his chest and uses the only weapon left to her. She rips his throat out with her teeth, and becomes a victor.

She's wildly popular, and when the Victory Tour reaches the Capitol, everyone wants tickets. I have been an escort for three years without a particularly popular tribute, so I don't rate, but I do volunteer to work it for Capitol Dreams. I don't meet Enobaria (I wasn't really trying), but I do meet Evasius Tyler. He's a photographer for _Games Gab_ and a few of the other fashion magazines, and he ends up getting my picture on the cover of two magazines that year. He tells me that I'm getting to be well-known enough that I should be promoted to a better district. As Haymitch hasn't bothered to answer any of my letters this year, it sounds good. But no one is leaving.

I try to remember the way Haymitch kissed me at the lake shore. The way it felt to be wrapped in his arms. The way it felt when it seemed like he really needed me, that first year. Now, he doesn't even answer me.

I find him drunk again when I go back for the Sixty-Third reaping, and I consider just letting him lie there, and make a fool of himself on television when he drags himself in. In the end, I grit my teeth and get him cleaned up.

I call Berry Danes and Ronka Blaney that year. Berry is an awful flirt, and Ronka wants to try on all of my wigs. I let her try on the ones I've brought on the train, and when we get to the apartment, I bring over twenty more. We try them all on her, and I take pictures of her. She laughs and smiles. I see Haymitch watching all of this.

After they go to bed the second night, he says, "You're still the best in the Capitol at this, Effie. I haven't said it, have I?"

I shake my head.

"I should've answered your letter, too."

"It wasn't important. I was just trying to be friendly."

"Did it work out with that Evasive guy?"

"Evasius," I correct him. "And there was nothing to work out. It turned out he was just interested in taking pictures of me."

"Is he crazy?"

I roll my eyes. "If that's crazy, then most of the men in my life are crazy."

"Then I guess they must be."

"He told me I should ask for a better district."

"Are you going to?"

I look at the wigs scattered around the room, and at Haymitch, doing his awkward best to make small talk. Haymitch knows as well as I do that I'm not leaving. "Well, you know," I say. "As much as I can't wait to get out of here, there are no openings."

He smiles, and I guess he knows it's a joke. We get along all right for the rest of the Games. When a reporter asks him if he's seeing anyone, he even jokes that he's "saving himself" for me. There's laughter, but somehow it doesn't seem cruel. I tell him it's all right, and it becomes a running joke that he has with the press.

Ronka and Berry do well at training, and even make an alliance with District Eleven, but the Cornucopia takes all four of them. My sponsor list starts to shrink again. Haymitch and Chaff and Seeder invite me to come drinking with them. Haymitch gives me a drunken kiss, and even though he won't remember it and it's sloppy and spitty and lazy, it still makes me feel more than either of the proper lovers I've had ever did. I push him away and leave early with Seeder. We end up sitting in the mentors' lounge and drinking wine. We don't talk about what happened at the other bar.

Haymitch doesn't remember it, or if he does, he does a good job of covering up for it.

It's a large, woodland arena that year, and the Games go on for a long time. A boy named Jack Anderson, from Seven, befriends Marcus Deetz from District Six, and they hole up together in a cave after fighting their way from the Cornucopia together. Jack, a good looking boy with a delicately shaped face, has a very large female fan base, and I suppose that's why the official broadcast is carefully edited to make it look like the two boys are only good friends.

The Gamemakers are enamored of the girl from Nine, and most of the coverage is her hunt for the boys who killed her district partner. Jack and Marcus are mainly left alone until the pack is down to six tributes, at which point, they decide to manipulate them into turning against each other by prohibiting food gifts in the arena. Slowly, the forest animals are called away, and the vegetation withers. All the boys have left is a dwindling supply of bread that someone sent Marcus before the prohibition kicked in. While the others in the arena continue their hunt for each other, interest builds as to whether or not district children will turn on their friends if they're hungry enough. Psychologists are brought in for commentary. People on the street place their bets.

After a week with no food and very little water, Marcus digs up the last of the heel of bread. It's obviously stale and is growing mold. The boys have agreed to share it, but once he starts eating, Marcus doesn't stop. Jack comes in from a search for food to find him gulping down the last crumb.

The cave is near the top of an incline, only feet from the edge of a ravine. Jack's fury and hunger outweigh any other feelings he may have. The fight takes them to the edge of the cliff, and Jack pushes Marcus over it. He stands there for a long time, his face mad with victory, then suddenly begins to scream. And scream.

He's far enough away from the others that they don't hear him. The girl from Nine is killed when the other remaining tributes find her and cut her throat, then they go into melee, not realizing that Jack is still alive. The last one, the girl from Four, is gravely wounded, and dies waiting for the trumpets to sound her victory. Instead, the last cannon goes off, and Jack wins.

It takes nearly a month for the counselors to put him together enough for final events, and during that time, Games fans are consumed with the question of whether or not they would sacrifice a friend to live. There's even a show created on the fly where best friends are brought in and made to work together to get toward a very large prize (a house in the foothills), but that only one of them can win it. They can either stick together at the second largest prize, or fight each other for the big one. Many tearfully admit how hard it is to stick to your friends in such conditions.

Jack finally emerges, still pale and shaken, and Mr. Hedge is allowed to lead him through the closing ceremonies more closely than most mentors are. He seems ready to start screaming all over again during the first airing of the Games. Beside me, Haymitch has his hands balled into fists so tight that his knuckles are white.

We don't talk about it.

We do manage to correspond throughout the year, though there's little for us to do. I still maintain our ties with his loyal sponsors, and try to work new contacts, but they're drying up, even as I frantically rush to any publicity event I can to keep my face in their minds. Haymitch teases me about this, saying that I'm clearly trying to get promoted. I go along with the joke.

President Snow's son Martius is promoted to Head Gamemaker. This causes a lot of buzz, because rumor has it that he and his father don't get along. Martius Snow goes on television and swears allegiance to the President, but there's a lot of talk about whether or not he means it. Haymitch is cautiously optimistic on the Games front, as he says, as far as he knows, that "Snow's kid" is mostly decent, and won't pull anything as crazy as the stunt they pulled with Jack.

I meet a young bookkeeper named Vespasian Cane. I originally hire him to get my finances in order, but I find him funny and sweet. He doesn't make much money of his own, though he's good at handling mine. He treats me like the princess of his own personal kingdom. I bring up the possibility of a short marriage contract, and give him as long as he wants to think about it.

He hasn't answered when the reaping comes again.

For the Sixty-Fourth Games - my fifth Games as an escort - I call Nasseh Rutledge and Sunny Gormley. I've gotten to know enough about District Twelve that I can tell they're both miners' kids before I even talk to them. Sunny is misnamed. She's a sullen girl who is bound to find the cloud in every silver lining. Even Haymitch is more positive about things.

Nasseh, on the other hand, is the best tribute I've seen so far. He listens intently to what Haymitch tells him, and all through training tries every skill he can. He diligently obeys my manners lessons, and understands implicitly that he has to impress the sponsors. Haymitch coaches him through Caesar's interview, where he's a huge hit, talking about his family and the stray cat that he looks after. He manages to put in a pitch for Capitol citizens to adopt pets, which makes Caesar laugh (and, according to a report, gets a hundred and sixty two animals adopted in the Capitol over the course of the Games).

He follows Haymitch's instructions to the letter when he gets into the arena. While Sunny grimly charges the Cornucopia against orders, and dies doing it, Nasseh skirts the edge of the circle, picking up a small backpack and running for cover. It's a fantasy-based arena this year, with deep, shady woods and cool mountain trails. Nasseh finds cover in a feature that's clearly supposed to be an abandoned mine, and makes a point of joking to the hidden cameras that it was just made for him.

He has no weapons, but he asked Haymitch what to do if that situation came up, and does as he was told. He doesn't try anything fancy. He just finds a well-shaped rock, rips a sturdy hem from his shirt, and lashes it to a heavy tree limb to make a hammer. It turns out to be very effective when he runs into the boys from Districts Six and Seven, though he takes their knives after the fight.

Haymitch is fiercely devoted to him, and, for the first time since I've known him, seems to think he really has a chance. When Nasseh has trouble finding food, Haymitch sends him a very cheap basket, of all things, which I wouldn't think would have any use… but Nasseh reads it as Haymitch meant him to, and realizes that the berries he'd been avoiding are edible. He picks quite a lot of them. The next parachute contains five purifier pills. Haymitch is very specific about this, and it means taking one of them out of the usual packet of six. Nasseh frowns at it for a minute, but then seems to get it. He goes in the direction the parachute landed in, and finds the female tribute from Five, a decent girl who also has a large following. The two of them make an alliance, and get even more camera time.

The sponsors start pouring in. Nasseh's face is on a lot of tee shirts in the street. He makes the final eight easily, along with his ally.

Then Haymitch sends him the shield.

It was supposed to be for sending signals - the kids had been talking about coordinating an attack, and needed a way to "speak" across the ravine where the inner district pack is camped out. Haymitch went searching for something that would give a good flashing reflection, but could be hidden quickly. The shield, which was matte-painted on one side, seemed perfect.

But Nasseh gets cocky. He decides that it means he should rush in on the camp, weapons flashing, with the shield to keep him safe.

He dies in seventh place. His ally makes it to fourth. The winner is a boy from One, named Diamond.

I barely notice this.

After calling Nasseh's parents, I see Haymitch moving listlessly through the Viewing Center. He goes to the bar. I go to him and ask if he's all right. He tells me to go and leave him alone. Field questions from the press, if they have any. Anything. Just let him be. His eyes are red but cold, and his hands move extremely slowly.

"Haymitch -"

"Effie, _please_. Let me be."

I try to go home and talk to Vespasian about everything, but all I can see is the blank look on Haymitch's face. Vespasian tries to cheer me up and distract me, but nothing seems to work.

"I'm sorry," I finally say. "I have to go back."

"It's not your responsibility."

"He's my friend."

"He's your _boss_."

"I have to go," I say again.

I grab a taxi back to headquarters and rush to the bar. He's long gone. The bartender says that he went back up to the apartment.

I run across the plaza to the Training Center and take the elevator upstairs.

"Haymitch!" I yell. "Haymitch, are you all right?"

He doesn't answer.

I almost pass by him. He's collapsed behind the couch, and all I see is one dirty bare foot. He's unconscious, and his breathing is slow and labored. He has an open bottle of gin, mostly spilled around his hand, and pills are scattered around him.

I've seen this kind of thing before, mostly at parties where people lose track of what they've taken to feel good. I'm guessing Haymitch was trying to not feel anything.

I grab his wrist and feel a thin, thready pulse. He's breathing on his own, but I don't think he will be for long. I call the Games medics. They'll be discreet. I gather up the pills for them.

They arrive five minutes later and take him to the victors' hospital to pump his stomach (some victors come back poisoned from fruits in the arena), and they put him up in one of the recovery rooms. He stays unconscious for two days. I stay beside him.

When I get back home, Vespasian has moved out.

I move on.

I'm scared for a while that I'll hear news out of Twelve, news that Haymitch has had another accident with his drinking, but after a few months pass without incident, I get a letter from him. He is doing better. The families of some of his tributes are looking after him. _They reminded me that even I'm better than no one,_ he writes. _They don't say it quite like that, but it's what they mean. I guess it would be selfish to have any more accidents. I don't want to throw everything onto you. Thank you for getting me help. I think I should have said that earlier._

I'm still not sure. The words are measured, and I can't help hearing them in my head as a rehearsed speech.

But he is still there when I arrive in the spring for the Sixty-Fifth reaping. We don't talk about what happened.

The Sixty-Fifth Games are a lot of things. They're the year that Haymitch makes friends with a Gamemaker. The year that I call Treeza Murphy and Chicory King. The year that the stylists get more autonomy. The year of the island arena.

But really, there's only one thing that matters: They are the year of Finnick Odair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part Two: Beauty**

**Chapter Ten**  
I get a glimpse of the boy from District Four on television, while I'm trying to get Treeza and Chicory to stop panicking. That's most of the point of watching the Reapings, and pretending that it's vitally important to see other frightened children coming up to the stage. It takes about half an hour, and sitting still that long is often enough to even off their breathing and get them thinking straight. At least that's Haymitch's theory, and so far, it's worked well enough.

At any rate, the commentators don't dwell on Finnick Odair, except to point out that it's unusual, but not unheard of, for District Four not to produce any volunteers when a young tribute is called. We're assured that there have been at least sixteen Games where one of the District Four tributes wasn't a volunteer. The girl is an eighteen-year-old volunteer named Dempsey Colton, and she tries to upstage the quiet boy beside her during the reading of the Treaty. He's supposed to be fourteen, but he barely looks twelve. He's an attractive child. That's all I have time to think before they move on to District Five and Treeza - who really is twelve, but looks fifteen - asks if they'll actually get to meet Caesar Flickerman. She's one of the merchants, and some relation to the baker's wife ("at least according to the paperwork," Haymitch quips obscurely), and she has her blond hair cut into a fashionable bob. If I think there's anyone particularly threatening, it would be Swather Brooks, from Eleven, who looks like he might well eat both of my tributes as an appetizer before getting to the rest of the field. Chicory's eyes go wide when he watches that Reaping. He's seventeen, but skinny and malnourished, like so many of the children I've called.

I don't give any more thought to the boy from Four until a slow moment at the Remake Center, while Chicory and Treeza are still in prep. _Most_ of the tributes are still in prep. Finnick Odair is sent downstairs wearing a pair of scaly pants meant to evoke a fish tail, and not much else. He looks around for his escort and mentor, who are both at meetings (Haymitch is meeting with a new sponsor himself), then sits down miserably on a chair not far from me. They've put a seashell wreath on his head, and he's carrying a plastic trident. Other than being cleaned up, they've really not done anything to him.

And why would they? On camera, in a quick shot from a distance, he seemed to be a solidly attractive child, but nothing special. Up close, I can see that he is quite genuinely beautiful, the way a painting or a sculpture is beautiful. It's an almost feminine kind of beauty - full pink lips, deep and thick red hair, and eyes as green as gemstones. His face is unmarked except for a casual spill of freckles on his nose, and he's strongly built despite his youth.

He makes me think of the book of fairy tales Haymitch gave me, like he's a creature conjured up by a good witch, maybe a perfect son for the hardworking king and queen who've been cursed with barrenness, born from a seashell they found on the beach and gifted with all of the charms that could possibly fit into him.

He seems to feel me looking in his direction, and looks up slowly. "Hi."

I smile. "Hi. I'm Effie Trinket. I'm the escort from Twelve. Did you need anything?"

He shakes his head. "I'm Finnick. I'm waiting for Mags. She usually mentors the girl, but I know her from home, and I asked if she could mentor me."

"I think she got a call to meet with a sponsor while you were in prep," I tell him. "I'm sure she'll be back soon."

He gives me a distracted little smile, and turns away to face the elevator.

The other tributes start coming down about fifteen minutes later. Therinus has given up on his authenticity kick (it never went over well with the public) and has done something he calls "conceptualization." It's changed since the sketches I looked at. He's got them in a shared, tent-like structure made of lumpy, textured black material, which he says symbolizes a pile of coal. They are wearing hats that are supposed to be lumps of coal clumped together, but I don't even need to wait for Haymitch to get back to know what he'll say, and I'm right. I don't think I've ever heard anyone string together quite as many colloquialisms for defecation as he does as soon as he lays eyes on them.

Therinus starts weeping hysterically about his "vision" while Haymitch (totally against procedure) hectors his partner, Agabus, into doing whatever he can to break the image - "I don't care what! Just make them look less like a giant flying mutt crapped on them." We experiment with whatever we happen to have on - Haymitch tries his suit jacket and his fine shirt on Chicory but they're way too big for him (Haymitch spends the rest of the evening in an undershirt, which lets the whole country see that he hasn't exactly been keeping in shape, and will cause no end of merriment among the comedians… but up close, I can still see the strength in his arms and shoulders). I offer Treeza my wig, even though I don't like going without it, but she shakes her head firmly. I do end up giving her my shoes, to give her a little height, and I spend the evening barefoot.

Finally, we decide to cut the main structure in two, so that they're both wearing what look like asymmetrical black capes. Therinus refuses to participate, and Agabus doesn't want to cross him any further. I run out to the street and find someone who's selling strings of beads for the parties, and drape orange ones over their shoulders and around the hats. The first chariots are already going out.

"What's that supposed to be?" Haymitch asks.

"I don't know. Fire?"

He covers his face, then sighs and looks up. "I'm sorry," he tells the kids. "We'll get past it with the sponsors, and at least you're covered up."

Treeza turns this way and that, making her cape sway. "I like it," she says.

Chicory looks at her like she's crazy and mutters something about blondes.

Mercifully, the cameras don't dwell on them during the parade, and the close-ups during the president's speech are actually close enough that the audience is basically only seeing their faces.

Not that much time is spent on the District Twelve chariot. Everyone gets at least one shot, but the focus perpetually moves back to District Four, lingering on Finnick's face from many different angles. The cameras love him.

When we watch the recaps that night in the apartment, it's clear that the cameras aren't alone in that. People on the street have captured images from the live broadcast, and are carrying signs with Finnick's face blown up to poster size. A doll manufacturer promises that he has already called his top designers to get an action figure molded before the Games begin. Giggling schoolgirls declare their love. The segment producers joke about trying to find other tributes' fan clubs, but not having much luck.

Treeza rushes to a mirror. "Do you think he'll notice me?" she asks.

"Let's hope not," Haymitch says. "Getting noticed by other tributes isn't generally a good thing in the Games, unless they're scared of you. We're going to have to work around the - "

"I shouldn't have gotten my hair cut!" Treeza declares, trying to push her short hair into different shapes. "I was prettier with long hair."

Haymitch shakes his head. "Don't worry. We'll get you more camera time."

"What?"

He closes his eyes, then opens them and turns to Chicory. "Are you worried about your hair, too?"

"No. When I finish with pretty-boy, his own mother won't want to look at him."

"Great," Haymitch mutters. We watch the coverage a little longer, then he sends the kids up to sleep. He and I have a cup of coffee in the little dinette area.  
"Effie, will you go out on the street and see if we have any friends that they just neglected to show?"

"I'm sure we do," I tell him. "You know how they are. They're always looking for… novelty." I reach across the table and take his hand. He sometimes objects when I do this, but seems to have mostly concluded that it's harmless. This time, he weaves his fingers through mine. I smile. "I'll find their fans. And I'll get a wig with Treeza's haircut and get it into _Games Gab_. See if we can't get people to look at her as fashionable."

"That would be good. And I'll see if I can get Chick calmed down. Going into training with a grudge is always a bad idea." He skims the ball of his thumb over my hand. "Is it me, or does that kid look a little familiar? Has he been on the broadcast from Four before?"

"I don't think so," I say. "He's pretty noticeable."

"Yeah." He squeezes my hand and looks at me calmly for what probably seems longer than it is. "I bet half the other tributes are weak at the knees, and the other half are out for blood."

"Probably."

"It's probably a good thing they stopped playing games with the sponsors," he says. "I mean… you remember the year after my Games. The way they found out that some people were getting sponsors."

"I remember. You were one of the ones that helped stop it."

"I sometimes wonder if it's back. Did you notice Jack Anderson squiring ladies around the Capitol?"

"I just assumed that he decided he likes everyone. People do sometimes, you know. And they _do_ keep an eye on what you do with sponsors. Or what _I_ do with them, for that matter. I used to date a bookkeeper. He had some seasonal work making sure that all of the sponsorships were legitimate. Anyway, wouldn't you know? Wouldn't they be… well, talking to you?"

He smiles wearily and stares at our twined hands. "It's one advantage of being a careless drunk with an expanding gut. No one's calling these days."

One of his curls has disentangled itself from the rest of his hair, and is falling across his brow. I reach across and correct it with my free hand. "You know, in your year a lot of the girls in school were talking about _you_ after the parade."

He catches my hand by his face and holds it. "Yeah? Were you?"

I nod. "I even had a poster."

"Oh, really?"

"It was right beside my mirror."

"Your mirror."

"So it would look like we were standing there together having a conversation."

"Oh. Naturally."

"I didn't know how unpleasant conversations with you would end up being, of course."

Our noses brush against each other, and Haymitch sits back, letting go of my hands. "You should go, Effie. Check out what's going on out there, and sleep at home tonight. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"I think you're right," I say. I get up and go to the living room, and put my shoes back on. Treeza shed them with exaggerated protestations of pain as soon as we got up here. I turn to head for the elevator and see Haymitch standing in the door to the kitchen area, watching me from the shadows. I look back at him.

He smiles. "Get out of here, Effie. Please."

I nod and go to the elevator. It seems to take a long time to get all the way up.

Out on the street, there's a breeze coming in off the lake that keeps things cool, and I'm glad of it. In the Games plaza, the camera crews are milling around, hoping to get a glimpse of anyone inside. I'm recognized and interviewed cursorily - who am I wearing (a dress from Philippa's pre-fall line), do I think my tributes are strong this year (of course, I'm completely sure of them), and how is the District Twelve team responding to the interest in the boy from Four (we haven't given him much thought, though I spoke to him and he seems like a nice young man). They release me. Later, I'll find out that the only thing that makes the airwaves is my comment that Finnick Odair is nice.

The parties on the street are the same as ever, though there do seem to be more fans of Four than usual. There is almost nothing in Finnick Odair's look that people can copy, though a few barbers have opened up to offer dye jobs and haircuts, and enterprising children are selling seashells from the lake shore for people to make crowns.

I end up having to go off the streets and into a few private parties - they rarely turn away a well-known Games escort - to find fans of districts other than Four, and they aren't promising. Haymitch's usual friends in the Capitol are reliable (though even Miss Sanders, while being devoted to Twelve, is showing more concern for what will happen to "that poor boy from Four - they're going to smother him with all of this nonsense!"), and many children seem to like Treeza. Children always flock to the twelve-year-olds… though Finnick has a goodish concentration of these himself, since he looks so young. Chicory is decent-looking, and there seem to be people making a concerted effort to argue that brunettes are inherently more attractive than redheads, and in one alleyway, it looks like a fight might start over the subject.

Finnick is all the talk at the smarter parties in the good section of town. Politicians and military men are talking in excited tones about how he resembles a young Alexander, whoever that is. One makes an obscure reference to sending him a horse named Bucephalus, and they all laugh. The president makes an appearance at this particular party, and I see him from a distance, talking to one of these men and smiling coldly.

There are a few victors milling around as well. Jack Anderson is attending to an older woman who seems delighted with his company. He keeps glancing up at the screen, where they're showing re-caps of the parade. They still have the reaping crews down in Four, and Finnick's father has been cornered by them. He's a decent-looking man, though his skin is weathered by life at sea.

"Doolin Odair," someone says beside me.

I turn to find Mr. Hedge, the other District Seven mentor. He looks spooked. "Who?" I ask.

"I used to do business with the old crook. Overpriced shellfish. I bought shark from him once. I haven't seen him in years. He looks old." He smiles a little madly. "I guess we all do."

"Don't be silly. You look fine."

"_She_ probably doesn't. She won't let them put her on television."

"Who won't?"

He blinks heavily. "The mother," he says. "Carolyn, I think her name is. She was beautiful once. The boy takes after her."

It occurs to me to wonder how he knows what Odair's wife looks like. I imagine that they must have some kind of communication system to show the fish they're selling. Maybe she handled the business. But it looks like Mr. Hedge isn't thinking of her entirely as a fishmonger. "How do you know them?" I ask.

He turns to me, wide-eyed, and seems to realize that he's been speaking to me. He forces a smile onto his face. "Aw, you know. Youth. There's a resort down there in Four. I used to date a Capitol girl, and she got us travel permits to go there. I probably couldn't do anything like _that_ anymore. I met Odair at the beach. He was selling fresh oysters." He laughs wildly. "You know what they say about oysters!"

I don't, but I feel like I'm expected to, so I nod.

On screen, Finnick's father is asked where his wife is. He says she was scheduled on a boat the afternoon after reaping. "She didn't want to go, of course - not with all of this happening - but she didn't have a choice."

Mr. Hedge gives a derisive snort, then glimpses Jack across the room. He grinds his teeth and excuses himself.

I stay out until just after two, then go home. I put in an order for a wig in Treeza's hairstyle (though I choose to make it blue, so it won't _look_ like I'm trying to sell it). It's not uncommon, if not quite common enough to be called _the_ In Look, so my wigmaker has it in stock, and it won't require much in the way of resizing or styling. Since my orders go to the front of the line, it should be ready for delivery before I leave tomorrow morning.

Sure enough, I'm awakened by a messenger at eight o'clock. He has my new wig. I put it on and dress to match. Make-up is relatively minimal this season. A tan base, glitter frosted false eyelashes, and pearl-toned lipstick. I'm ready to go well before nine, and I get to the Training Center apartment just as the servant - they've started using Avoxes, of all things, now; this is the first time I've ever seen one not doing menial maintenance work - is setting out breakfast. Haymitch is trying to strike up a conversation with her.

"She can't talk," I tell him. "No tongue."

His eyes open wider. "What?"

"It's usually a punishment for traitors."

He stares at the girl, then looks at me. "You're all right with that?"

"What do you mean?"

He looks like he's about to say something, then shakes his head and calls the kids out. We have a decent breakfast together. Haymitch advises them to stay clear of the Career pack, which is what he calls the inner district alliance.

"Like I'd want to go near that pretty boy," Chicory grouses.

"_I_ would," Treeza says dreamily.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "_You_ snap out of it. I have no idea what kind of person he is - "

"He's a good person! You can tell in his _eyes_. Even Effie said he was nice, on television."

" - and neither do you. Maybe he's decent. But maybe he knows how to use that pretty face to get you to come close enough to kill." He considers it. "He _is_ young, though. The other Careers might not want him. If they seem to be leaving him out of things, go ahead, make an alliance. There are worse things than being allies with a kid who's going to end up sponsored by half the Capitol."

I check messages while the kids change into their training uniforms. I'm disappointed - but not surprised - to find that two of this morning's sponsor meetings have been canceled.

Haymitch brushes it off. "It's bad luck," he says. "I know you've been working the contacts. Nobody was predicting Helen of Troy showing up in a chariot."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Just an old story." He watches the Avox cleaning up the dishes for a few minutes, his nose wrinkled in unmasked disdain. "What do we have left on dock?"

"You have three still," I say. "One first thing - you'll need to go downstairs with the children. After that, there's an hour break, then two more. All in the conference rooms. I'll see if I can find a few more during the first one."

"Thanks. Give me enough of a break to check in with you, though."

"I'll meet you in the lounge."

As it happens, I can give him the full hour's break. No one is interested in coming to a meeting who hasn't already set one up. The president of his fan club - a strange, bookish little man named Erastus - promises to see if he can stir up some interest in Twelve. "I don't suppose he's done anything this year?" he asks timidly. "I mean, I know he's… busy… at home. Does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Is he doing a hobby?"

"He's not seeing anyone," I say. "And his hobby… He… well, he reads."

"Mmm. I wish he'd at least give us an interview about what he's reading. Do you know if he's read the new one by Quintina Winters? A lot of readers are talking about it. Maybe if he's read it, they'd want to hear about it and maybe give him a little money?"

I'm no one's idea of a reader, at least not the way Erastus means, where they make a whole lifestyle of talking about books, but even I've heard of _The Checklist_, a book about a District Three woman who is working her way down a list of titillating activities that are frowned on there. I'm reasonably sure what questions people would ask Haymitch about it. I'm completely sure that he has no idea it exists and wouldn't read it if he did. "I think he prefers the older stories. Do you know who 'Helen of Troy' was? Would they want to hear about her?"

He says the character name sounds familiar, but he can't place her, and doesn't sound hopeful about her generating interest. The fan club has shrunk a lot, and, Erastus complains, half the ones who are left are there for all the wrong reasons. "Half of them believe that rubbish about him being a drunk. I keep telling them that's just something the news makes up to make him look bad."

"Well…"

"_They'd_ probably just want to hear about that homemade liquor he supposedly drinks. They keep trying to make it."

"I don't think he knows how to make it."

Erastus grumbles a little bit more about how he's sure they're just not showing the _real_ Haymitch, who's one of the smartest men in Panem and certainly must be doing _something_ with it, then lets me go.

I go downstairs and find Haymitch waiting in the lounge in a sour temper. He's been taking the pills that keep the craving for liquor off of him, but they don't improve his mood.

"Nothing from the first one," he says. "Apparently, he wants to 're-direct' his contributions."

"I'm sorry. He should have canceled, too."

"I think he wanted to come down here to see if he could get a glimpse of the training room screens."

"Oh."

He shudders. "As far as I'm concerned, that means it's just as well he's not looking at Chicory and Treeza. What's wrong with a guy who's salivating over a fourteen-year-old kid? Who looks even younger, while I'm at it."

"I'm sure it's not like _that_…"

"Go out on the street tonight, Effie. See how many of the hookers have their hair dyed. How many have seashells on their outfits. Then tell me how 'sure' you are." He runs his hands through his hair. "And if you're right, tell me so, because I could use an uplifting tale just about now."

"Is Helen of Troy an uplifting tale?"

He laughs. "You're not getting past that one, are you? Answer's no, not in the least. If you want to read it, it's Greek mythology. Suffice it to say, her beauty was leveraged pretty well. You can use my library pass after the Games."

"Thanks, I - "

"Haymitch?"

He looks up, surprised, then leery. I look over my shoulder and see a short, roundish man who I recognize from about a hundred Capitol Dreams events, but have never met properly. I hold out my hand to shake his, but he doesn't respond.

Haymitch seems to know him, though. "Plutarch," he says cautiously.

"Good to see you!"

"Are you back with the Gamemakers?"

"Oh, I've been with them all along. They've had me on research. I'm a full Gamemaker now."

"Wonderful."

"Feels like I haven't talked to you for years," Plutarch says. He claps Haymitch's arm, actually reaching around me to do it, and moving me off to one side a little bit. "I haven't really been myself, but I'm feeling better now."

"Oh, really," Haymitch says dryly, and physically turns me around to face Mr. Heavensbee. "By the way, this is my escort, Effie Trinket."

Mr. Heavensbee's eyes flicker over me briefly and he says, "Yes, of course. So what _have_ you been doing?"

Haymitch clamps his jaw. "Making friends with my escort, among other things. Effie, this is Plutarch Heavensbee. Plutarch, Effie."

Mr. Heavensbee seems to realize that he's been reprimanded. He smiles at me formally and says, "It's nice to meet you, Miss Trinket. Haven't I seen you at Capitol Dreams functions?"

"Yes. Quite a few."

"Well, I'm not with Capitol Dreams anymore - it was just eating up so much time - so it's certainly nice to know that I'll see you somewhere new." He turns back to Haymitch. "It frees up my schedule a little. I wondered if you and Chaff might be interested in a nice chess game sometime. Now that I'm feeling better. Fulvia will be with me. You remember my girl, Fulvia? I started seeing her again a few months ago."

Haymitch frowns. "That's great, Plutarch. We'll play chess. But remember - don't try any feints on me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Mr. Heavensbee walks away.

"What was that about?" I ask. "Why did you want me to meet a Gamemaker?"

"I don't care whether or not you meet him," Haymitch says, sitting down at the lunch counter in the lounge. "Plutarch's a blowhard and I don't trust him any further than I can throw him. But I'm the only one who gets to ignore you. And frankly, I ought to be smacked over the head for it."

I smile, and grab the stool beside him. "Let's get you set up for your next meeting. We'll need more sponsors if we're going to compete with Helen of Troy."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**  
Haymitch and I finally get a small list of people we might be able to count on. Lepidus still has a soft spot for Twelve, and for Haymitch particularly, and his house has been doing well this year. His old hair stylist, Medusa, is also having a banner year, and would probably sign over her entire life savings to him if he asked her for it.

Haymitch says he doesn't know why this is true, but I did spend time on the prep team. I know that he told Ausonius Glass - who always had a penchant for physically bullying the other members of the team - that any injury done to the preps or stylists was going to be visited back onto him. Haymitch might or might not remember doing that. He certainly doesn't think it was anything special, and it's of a piece with the way he treats everyone he decides is under his protection. But for Lepidus, Atilia, and all of the District Twelve preps who were with him through his Games and the year afterward, it was an unparalleled act of valor, which they tell to newcomers in hushed and awed tones. ("And he doesn't even want a thank you for it!") The newcomers tell more newcomers. By the time I came on board, the re-telling practically had him holding a pure silver sword over Glass's head and giving a soliloquy about the dignity of honest labor. Knowing Haymitch, it was more likely a quick shove and a drunken rant about leaving his people alone, but I don't see any harm in letting people believe the stories.

I'm sure Haymitch would object if he knew how mythical it's gotten, but the tellings all include a caution not to mention it to him, lest he be embarrassed. It's a good caution, and I don't tell him about it, though my fear isn't of his embarrassment. My fear is another blow up like the one at the lake shore, about it being naïve and stupid to believe things like that. There's no reason to make the style team cry.

I'm not sure Haymitch sees himself any more clearly than they do, anyway.

At any rate, I tell him that he should call them, since they're his friends. For my part, my old friend Junius has had a good year working in a genetics lab. He developed a miniature lion that's all the rage in the designer pet crowd. His wife is a socialite with connections to everyone who's anyone, and I promise to use them. I also promise to vet them _before_ I use them.

"I just don't want another one like the guy this morning," he says, shuddering as we watch the silent feed from the training room, where one screen shows Finnick Odair alone at the spear station. Most of the boys have shed their shirts, but he hasn't. It doesn't help. Several girls (including Treeza) are at the nearby knot-tying station, not tying much of anything. On another screen, I can see Chicory throwing knives. He's not bad at it, but he loses concentration frequently. We can't see directly what he's glaring at, but I don't think it's a very hard guess.

"Is that the boy from Eight that he's talking to?" I ask, and flip through my guidebook. "Batten Stone."

Haymitch frowns. "Yeah, I think it is. If they stick together, I'll talk to Woof about an alliance. Or Cecelia, I guess. Woof wasn't looking very good at the parade. Did you see him?"

"No. But there was a rumor that he had an accident. It was on the news last fall. I didn't hear everything about it. I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry. I was still mostly worrying about _your_ accident."

His eyes flicker up to mine, then go back down. "What kind of accident did Woof have? Was it like mine?"

"No. It was something to do with the river up there in Eight. I can find out if you want."

"No, I'll take care of it. You go get those sponsors if you can."

I stay a few minutes, watching our tributes falter in training, then go off on my errands. Junius is a dead end, as his wife and her socialite friends are all abuzz about District Four. District Twelve is so far out of fashion that they treat even talking to me as a great service they've done for the less fortunate. On a whim after I leave, I go to Evasius at the _Gab_ to get him to get my wig on the fashion pages, and he's a better lead. Apparently, the high level cosmetologists are desperate for another tribute to grab the spotlight - one whose face isn't so beautiful that it needs no make-up. They want someone whose look they can sell. I give them Treeza, who is lovely but even prettier with a bit of mascara and some glow effect highlights. They're even fonder of Chicory, since the distinctive olive shade so common in District Twelve's mining population can be mass produced as a body spray, and any hair color can be dyed black. "I can _work_ with that!" a young owner enthuses over a picture I show him. "If he wins, I could sell that look for a long time. They did when Haymitch won, you know. I was just his age, and I had my hair permed and darkened, and I covered up my freckles for weeks."

I nod, and decide not to share the reasoning with Haymitch. I think he would be less than thrilled by it… but it's not actually dangerous. Wanting to look like someone isn't the same as wanting to touch that person.

When I get back to the apartment, the children are up from training. I know this before the elevator doors open, because I can hear them screaming at each other, though the words aren't clear until it opens up and I see Chicory storming around and ranting.

" - going to follow around that stuck up little - "

"Finnick is _not_ stuck up!" Treeza yells. "He's _sensitive._ He doesn't want to train with you because you're a jerk!"

"He thinks everyone ought to be falling over him, but even his own district partner doesn't want him. I talked to Dempsey. She says at home everyone always gives him what he wants, too, but she's not into that."

"He's very hurt about that!"

"You didn't even talk to him! You just stood there with those other loser girls and giggled at him."

"How long has this been going on?" I ask Haymitch quietly, slipping into the dinette chair across from him.

"They came up on the elevator fifteen minutes ago, and they were already fighting. With each other." He grimaces. "On the bright side, Lepidus came through. Medusa, too, though she really doesn't have that much money."

"You don't _understand!_" Treeza screams, and stomps off to her room.

Chicory grumbles, then turns to us. "He probably can't even fight, you know," he says. "He didn't go to any of the stations where he'd be fighting with people. He probably just gets stupid girls like Treeza to do his fighting for him."

"I wouldn't count on that," Haymitch tells him. "He may just not be tipping his hand… like I told _you_ not to do. Mags knows that strategy well."

Chicory gives a disdainful sniff. "Yeah, well, maybe. But I still bet he's never risked getting that tiny little nose broken. Bet he'd snivel like a merchant girl if he found out that someone had the gall to hit him."

Haymitch catches his arm as he goes by. "First of all, my ally was a merchant girl, and Maysilee would have put you down in about ten seconds, with a whole lot less sniveling than you're doing. Second, you don't know any more about this kid than Treeza does, and if you start acting on your assumptions instead of the facts in the arena, you're dead. Third, picking fights with your district partner is a stupid way to spend your training time. Now go upstairs and get cleaned up for dinner."

Chicory grinds his teeth. "He's going to get all the money. They're going to give him everything. It's not fair."

Haymitch nods. "Yeah. I know. The Games aren't fair, and I'm sorry about that. But don't pick a fight with someone who only exists in your head."

"But - "

"I'm trying to keep you alive as long as possible, Chicory. You understand that, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Then act like it, and do what I tell you."

Chicory grinds his teeth, and goes up to his room without saying anything.

"Was I like that when I was seventeen?" Haymitch asks. "I don't remember. Of course, I was probably drunk, which tends to fog the memory."

"You were drinking at seventeen?"

"The year after the Games? Oh, yeah. As much as I could." He shrugs. "I don't remember being that big an idiot, though. Were you an idiot when you were seventeen?"

"Well, I did risk my job to clean up a man I never met that year."

He grins. "Yeah, I guess you did. I forgot how young you were. What about when you were twelve? Were you like Treeza?"

"Definitely."

"Yeah?" His smile gets broader, and I can't help but return it. "What guy did you decide was too sensitive to talk to you?"

"Parmenas Palmer." I sigh dramatically. "He was the cutest thing I ever saw, and I was sure we'd sign a permanent marriage contract the second I worked up the nerve to say hello to him."

"Did you ever?"

"No." I laugh. "What about you? What girl was making you crazy back then?"

"At twelve?" He shrugs. "I was pretty much a one-girl guy before the Games. It was always me and Digger. She was my best friend until we were big enough for anything else."

"You never even daydreamed about anyone?"

"Sure. But I was a guy who sometimes had to wear his mother's old clothes to school and kept his shoes together with packing string and good luck. I was too busy being amazed that Digger would bother with me to put much energy into wondering about anyone else."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up."

"Don't worry about it. I can't remember the last time anyone asked about her." His eyes go far away for a minute, then he brings himself back. "Thinking of old friends, how did you do with yours…?"

I fill him in on the day's sponsorships. He tells me that Cecelia actually came to him about an alliance between Chicory and Batten, and that the girl from Seven, Eloise Tate, is also interested, so we'll get to work with Jack Anderson. He's got the papers ready. I go up to the Gamemakers to file them.

The next two days are the same, though with less luck in terms of sponsors. Treeza has fallen in with the group of young kids, much to Haymitch's distress - the young ones are almost always killed quickly if they're not allied with older kids. Chicory's group goes through training together, and Haymitch is cautiously hopeful, as Batten seems to have good sense. The second day of training, they stop wasting their time glaring at Finnick Odair and actually work on their skills.

Although a half-hearted effort is made to give air time to other tributes, the coverage still seems to be mostly about Finnick, and the District Four chariot is used as the main graphic for the Games, zipping by under official reports, trailing text in its wake. People speculate about what kind of life he has at home, with a mother who could head straight out to sea while her son is in the Games. Some are firmly in the camp that he has a happy home ("Look how self-assured and confident he is!"), and others believe he seems terribly lonely ("They haven't even interviewed any of his friends"). A growing group of people on the street seem to be taking up Chicory's attitude, that he's most likely spoiled and unpleasant, and they're countered by increasingly shrill screams about how he's _really_ isolated by his beauty.

"You notice that no one's _asking_ about him," Haymitch says while we watch late night coverage. "That would spoil all the fun of guessing."

For his part, Finnick does seem to be unwelcome with the inner district kids, which is very stupid - an ally with that much money coming in would easily keep them going for a long time. He spends some time teaching the giggling younger girls about knots that aren't in the book at the knot-tying station, but doesn't make any moves toward an alliance with them. Chicory makes a snide comment at dinner about wasting a training day playing string games with little girls. He approaches Chicory's group on the third day of training, just before evaluations, but they turn him away.

"Are you crazy?" Haymitch asks when Chicory gets back to the apartment. "I really want to know. That kid would guarantee you camera time and sponsor gifts."

"He can't do anything but tie knots and look pretty," Chicory says. "They'll probably kill him at the Cornucopia."

"Yeah, well, he's in with the Careers now - the papers are filed, no matter what Dempsey wants - so they'll get all of it."

"The sponsors aren't going to care about them after he's dead. Which he will be. He probably just played Cat's Cradle with the judges."

If he did, he must have played it well. He's awarded a nine. It's not the highest score in the pack - that goes to Swather, who gets an eleven, and there are two tens as well - but it's higher than our tributes. Chicory gets an eight, and Treeza gets a three.

Chicory makes a crude suggestion about what he really did to impress the Gamemakers. Haymitch sends him to his room to cool off. Treeza takes the opportunity to eat the desserts that he leaves behind. She seems untroubled by her low score.

The next day is interview prep day, which means I spend a lot of time teaching Treeza to walk in high heels. It's becoming a yearly ritual, since none of the girls from Twelve seem to ever wear them, and I'm developing a pretty good script for it. At least Treeza doesn't need to be talked into them, despite her discomfort at the parade. She sees right away how much better her dress works with them. (The dress needs all the help it can get. Therinus has continued his "conceptual" theme and made it out of an actual coal sack. I promise Treeza that I'll bring her nice jewelry from home to spruce it up for tomorrow, and I'll think of something wonderful for the prep team to do with her hair.) With Chicory, it's all about sitting still and looking interested for more than an hour while the other tributes are speaking. The boy from Twelve gets the distinction of speaking last - an advantage in terms of memory of the interview itself, but a distinct disadvantage for the time before, when the camera has many opportunities to catch him fidgeting.

I don't know what Haymitch has coached them on for their interviews, though he had Chicory for a very long time, and they both looked grumpy when they were through. We have a decent enough dinner, and we watch television for a little while. The Games coverage is trying to correct the earlier excess and stir up interest in the interviews with other tributes, so they get a little boost from that.

I spend the night finding interesting ways to style the wig I have in Treeza's haircut, and finally settle on free, breezy curls, dotted with sparkling gem clips. I try to think of something to do with jewelry that Therinus will let me get away with. At some point in school, I remember hearing about coal and some kind of jewel. I decide that will be the theme. I'll make the coal sack sparkle, like the coal inside is being turned into jewels. I'll use some decorative wig pins for it. Therinus won't _like_ it, exactly, but I think I can spin it as being an excited elaboration on his "vision." Treeza will enjoy anything that sparkles. Haymitch will tolerate it as well as he can. Maybe Therinus will be so upset that he'll quit. I have my eye on District Three's stylist if he does.

At the interviews, I sit between Haymitch and Mags Donovan from Four. Mags keeps getting Capitol Dreams runners coming in with messages about sponsors, right up to the moment that interruptions are banned in the audience. On Haymitch's other side, Jack Anderson is watching all of it with a wary eye. Last year, his first as a mentor, he was a wreck and Blight handled everything. This year, he's considerably calmer. He tells Haymitch that he has a live-in assistant at home, who's been keeping him grounded.

"How'd you swing that?" Haymitch asks. "They were pretty strict about non-relatives when I was asking."

"Well, you know," Jack says, looking down. "Play nice with them, you're allowed the occasional perk. Linden's really just an old friend. The Gamemakers said he could stay as long as he… had an identifiable function."

"That simple, huh?"

"Probably not for you," Jack says. " You'd already annoyed them. I'd done exactly what they wanted me to."

Cecelia, sitting on Jack's far side, puts an arm over his shoulder and musses his hair fondly.

The audience lights go out, and the stage lights up, showing the tributes sitting in their semi-circle. I try to hold back a hiss - at some point after I left, it looks like Therinus had all my baubles removed from the dress. Treeza looks heartbroken.

Caesar does his usual patter, then starts introducing them. I think I've come around to Haymitch's opinion of the interviews. The District One and Two kids' bragging about their surefire strategies goes out of my head as soon as it goes in. Three is marginally better. Dempsey from Four goes right back to strategy.

Caesar reaches Finnick. He makes a great show of scratching his head. "I think I might have seen you a few times during the lead-up events. Finnick Odair, right?"

"Guilty," Finnick says.

"Well, you certainly made an impression at the parade. Were you surprised?"

"Aw, no. Happens to me all the time. Makes it very hard to do my job. The fish are scared of all the cameras flashing, and they get really tired of the reporters asking them about me."

"So you help your family with the fishing business?"

"Well, you know, when I can spare time away from the mirror. It's so hard to pull myself away some mornings." He grins at the audience, and most of the ones he didn't already own now belong to him. It's not that his joke is all that funny. It's that he's told a joke at all, and is acknowledging the craziness around him. _It's okay,_ he seems to tell them. _We all know it's silly, and it'll be our little joke, right?_

Beside me, I can see that Mags has her fingers crossed so tightly that her knuckles are white. I realize that this whole business is a strategy - to make light of it all in order to defuse the tension.

It works. The audience laughs. Finnick waves to them jauntily, and they clap.

"So, is there a special girl at home?"

"Come on, Caesar. I just turned fourteen last month. My dad's not going to let girls in the house for another two years. And Mom says she plans to sit out on the porch with a trident in her lap when they do start coming around."

Caesar throws a few more softballs about what Finnick would like to do if he wins, and I notice that, as the interview goes on, each answer comes off as just slightly younger than the one before it. (He wants to buy a dog of his own if he wins, and when he gets a lot older, maybe a car.) I glance over at Mags. She's watching him very intently, and when he finishes, she nods grimly, looking pleased. On my other side, Haymitch's expression is unreadable. Jack sighs and shakes his head. He leans over to Haymitch, and I hear him whisper, "They're going to eat him alive." Beyond him, I can't see Cecelia clearly.

Caesar is always careful about the amount of time each tribute gets, and during the actual show, they're equals. Eloise from Seven makes people smile with a story about a bird she once tried to catch while she was out at a logging camp. Hiram Lender from Nine makes a bombastic little speech about the impressive skills he's been hiding so far. Swather counts on his size to be intimidating, but spends his time talking about a poem he once read (this makes Haymitch grin; I guess he's read the same poem, which is about "a dream deferred"). Treeza is actually rather charming in her interview, playing up her own youth, and even managing a flustered flirt in Finnick's direction. Caesar reaches Chicory last. Beside me, Haymitch mutters, "Stick to the script."

I don't know what the script is, but Chicory steers well clear of his opinion of any other tributes, instead talking about the backbreaking work his father and brothers do, and how he feels like they make him strong. On the whole, he comes off well.

Not that anyone would know it from the recaps. Everyone gets a little quote, but the analysis is squarely on Finnick. Everyone seems to have a story about what he is "really" trying to convey with the quips about his youth. Capitol boys roll their eyes at the idea that a boy who's reached fourteen isn't seeing anyone (it _does_ seem a little farfetched, but I know things are different in the Districts). Girls have created a girl at home out of thin air, who is pining for him. Adults deem his parents' overprotectiveness unhealthy, and District mores are dutifully tut-tutted. I can imagine Miss Meadowbrook watching back at Capitol Dreams, rolling her eyes at how very seriously District boys take these things.

Haymitch and I try to distract the kids from the constant barrage of coverage, which isn't easy, as Treeza has her own theories about Finnick's life at home and feels the need to share them with us. Chicory just glares throughout the broadcast, no matter what stories from home Haymitch tells to get his attention away.

We send them to bed and say goodbye, since the stylists will be here to collect them in the morning, and we won't see them before they go.

"They did as well as they could, didn't they?" I ask Haymitch.

He nods. "Yeah. But tomorrow's when it starts, and Treeza's little group is pressuring her to go for the damned Cornucopia. I shouldn't have let them be her allies."

Treeza wouldn't have much of a chance either way, and we both know it, but neither of us says it. If Chicory can get over his fixation on "the pretty boy," he might do better. "I'm glad she hasn't really processed it all," I say. "I'm actually glad she's had a little fun indulging a crush."

"I just hope he's not the one who kills her."

I stay up with Haymitch, watching television and trying not to remember that the children will most likely die in a few hours. I doze off, and when I wake up, I'm in my room, wrapped in a light blanket. I haven't slept here often - he usually likes me to go home - and I don't really recognize it for a few seconds.

The children are already gone, taken away from the roof to fly off to the arena. Haymitch and I have breakfast together, not talking, then I go off to the escort meeting to cover any etiquette issues this year, and he goes straight to the Viewing Center. I join him there just before ten. The screens are blank, except for the main broadcast screen, where Claudius Templesmith is nearly salivating over the Games to come.

I sit and wait for the countdown to begin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**  
I hear all of the mentors swear when the cameras reveal the arena for the first time.

The tribute circle around the Cornucopia is on a bowl-shaped beach. To one side is choppy sea water. The other sides seem to be covered with a forest of knife-like standing rocks, arid and unforgiving. The whole arena seems to be shades of red and beige and brown, desert colors. There is no green to hint at drinking water or edible vegetation. The uniforms are brown, tight-fitting tank tops, beige hiking pants, and heavy-soled brown boots.

I glance at Haymitch's purchase list. I have no idea what he saw in the catalog, but he's already prioritized a gallon water bottle for each of them - usually the last thing he'll buy, since he'd rather not have them leave a trail of water bottles. He must have analyzed things while I was at the escort meeting.

The gong sounds.

Treeza and her friends try for the Cornucopia. Haymitch tightens his fists until his knuckles turn white, and clenches his jaw. There's nothing he can do. It's too late to mentor her in training, and too early to try and nudge her with sponsor gifts.

I'm not sure who it is who cuts her down, but at least it isn't Finnick Odair, who's with the inner district kids, and is using his smaller size to dodge the fights on the way to the Cornucopia. When he gets there, he starts tossing them weapons. He does kill Albert Ingersoll from Seven, but it seems to be self-defense. Albert's not _much_ of a threat, but he does attack first, and Finnick picks up two of the knives that are lying there and defends himself quite efficiently.

More kids than usual avoid the Cornucopia this year. They must be looking at the arid arena and thinking of getting to safety. Chicory is one of these, apparently deciding at the last minute to actually listen to Haymitch. He meets up with Batten Stone and Eloise Tate and they run through a canyon of standing rocks, putting as much distance as they can between themselves and the battle on the beach, making for the high ground.

At the Cornucopia, only five die. Treeza and Albert are the first. The rest of the younger group - both of the kids from Six and the boy from Three - go down in the fighting. The six inner district kids take control of the Cornucopia and all of its supplies.

Haymitch goes to call Treeza's parents.

"We should get off the beach," Finnick says. He grabs Dempsey and points at the rocks behind him. His district token, a circle of leaping fish that he wears around his neck on a leather string - flashes in the sun. "High tide is way above here. We should make for high ground."

"They won't douse the Cornucopia every day," she says. "Don't be dumb."

"They buried the Cornucopia in volcanic ash once," Finnick corrects her.

"So, what… now you can't swim?"

Finnick looks at her like she's crazy. "That's the boundary of the arena. Do you really think it's not stocked with shark mutts?"

"Fine." Opal Delong, the girl from One, gathers up an armful of swords and binds them with a rope. "We'll make for the hills."

"Well, _we_ will, anyway," her district partner, Blaze, says, giving a snort.

Finnick doesn't bother not understanding. He moves sideways and goes to Dempsey's side. "We need to go," he says.

"_I'm_ not going anywhere." Dempsey pulls a knife.

Finnick jumps back, avoiding the stab to his side. He grabs her arm and twists her around, then shoves her at the others. Manlius Norton from Two manages to throw a spear before she hurtles into him, but it's very wide of the mark. Finnick grabs the spear but no supplies, and runs for the interior of the rock forest.

"Do we bother chasing?" Paulina Seldon asks.

Dempsey shrugs with practiced indifference. "He won't make it to nightfall without us looking out for him. His parents take care of _everything_ for him. He just fishes for his own money. They have more than enough, but somehow, they always manage to bring in the biggest catch. Crooks." She looks at the rocks. "He's not wrong about the tide line, though. I still doubt they'd drown the Cornucopia every day - if the tide was going in and out all the time, those rocks would have broken down a long time ago - but something got them wet, and there's a little seaweed on them. There are at least going to be some big waves." She looks around. "Let's find a tide pool and see if there's anything to eat."

Haymitch is just coming back from the booths when Mags Donovan attacks her mentoring partner, Harris Greaves.

It happens so fast that I don't even realize what's going on. There's a crash, and by the time I look up, Harris's chair is on the ground, and Mags is holding a knife over him. "We had a deal!"

"I'm sorry!" Harris shouts. "I made the deal in good faith!" He scoots backward, but he's trapped in the architecture of the chair. "I told Dempsey not to go along with it!"

"But you knew there was something to go along with?"

"The way they've been pushing him, like he's already crowned?" Harris manages to get himself out of the chair. He dusts himself off, and stays more than an arm's length from Mags. "I told you from the parade on, he's got a target on his back. I could have told you at the reaping, but you wouldn't listen. Just because you let him go clamming on your private beach - "

"I pay him to dig them for me."

"Oh, right, and he doesn't walk out with the best ones to sell at market, just because you and Carolyn are thick as thieves."

Beetee, the District Three mentor, steps between them. "Both of you, stop it. The rest of us need to concentrate, and you're not helping."

"You don't exactly need to concentrate anymore, do you?" Harris asks. "Your boy rushed the Cornucopia with a bunch of twelve-year-olds."

"And I just got off the phone with his parents," Beetee says coldly. "But Wiress and I still have Sidiki to worry about, and I'm not going to let your temper tantrum - "

"_My_ temper tantrum - "

"- interfere. And yes, your tantrum. Your girl broke a signed alliance. Mags has every right to be angry."

Harris rights his chair and slams it back down at the table. Mags pulls her chair as far from his as she can get it, and does not let go of the knife. Their escort has been manning her phone the whole time, and a second and third line are ringing madly. Berenice Morrow, from Six, who already lost her tribute, sits down timidly at the District Four table and starts answering for her. Mags hands her a pen to take information.

"Victors," Haymitch mutters, sitting down beside me. At the next table, Chaff grins. Haymitch shakes his head. "Effie, Mrs. Murphy wanted to thank you for the stunt with the wig. She understands what you meant to do, and says she's sure it made Treeza happy to see such a famous lady copying her hair." He says all of this in a cool and detached way.

I nod. "She's more than welcome. Chicory hasn't gotten far. Everyone's settling in now."

"Except Mags and Harris?"

I gesture at the screen. "Did you hear it?"

"Saw it through the wall of the booth. Harris is lucky Mags didn't cut first and ask questions later. Did you spot any water?"

"Not yet."

"Get on the water bottle, then. I don't see anything either."

And that's that. I have enough for three gallons of water, but it's impractical to carry them, and Jack and Cecelia, who've moved to our table for the alliance, have enough for their own tributes. We call in the order as soon as the kids are out of sight of the next nearest group of tributes. If they need another, it will be more expensive.

With the tributes all wandering through stone canyons, Claudius decides to take the opportunity to introduce the arena. The stone features, he says, are called "hoodoos," and they are a native feature of the area not far from the Capitol, though of course, those in the arena are re-created to form their own island. The map comes up. The island - which is most likely just a moated fortress - is shaped like a lopsided whale with the Cornucopia in its open mouth and a narrow isthmus to the wide, broad tail. They don't show us what kind of terrain is there. There's a high, bare area at the far north end, but the rest is covered by the rock forest, and steep, sharp mountains.

"You ever hike in the mountains around here?" Haymitch asks me.

"Not really."

"Mimi used to. I remember she said she used to."

"Miss Meadowbrook?"

"With her friends. She'd know what kind of animals there are. I bet if it's local geography, they're using souped up versions of the local predators."

"Did you want me to call her in?"

He considers it, then shudders and turns back to the screen. "No. I just thought she might have taken you hiking on one of the Capitol Dreams outings."

I try to imagine Miss Meadowbrook hiking. I can't quite get a picture of it in my head. Haymitch must have her mixed up with another girlfriend. "Well, we didn't go. But I think there were some outings up into the foothills. There are probably safety brochures."

"Send a runner for one. Half the Gamemakers were in Capitol Dreams, I bet, and that's what they'll be thinking of."

I grab one of the little messengers running around and tell him to go look for a hiking brochure at the compound, in the activity center. He looks like he has a million questions, but he doesn't ask them. He just goes.

By the time he gets back, Chicory's alliance has found a little alcove of rocks that's either protected on three sides (according to them) or boxed in on three sides (according to Haymitch). They allow themselves a few swallows of water, then cap the bottles.

"Now what?" Eloise asks. "We just camp until someone comes looking for us, or a mutt attacks? Or do we start hunting?"

"Hunting with _what_?" Chicory shakes his head. "We're unarmed. We have to make some weapons."

Batten picks up a heavy rock. "There are plenty of these. We could take our shirts and make slingshots. I mean, obviously, we'd have to share them for Eloise…" He blushes.

She shrugs. "Mine would probably be better. It's got a double holster" - she makes a show of cupping her breasts, which the shirt has a built-in support for - "and it's very tough."

The boys laugh, and they all agree to stay clothed against the sun at least until they figure out what they're doing.

"What's with your district?" Cecelia asks Jack. "You were half stripped down before you were in there an hour. I know you're not logging naked. That wouldn't be comfortable."

He laughs. "It's just not a big deal. There are swimming holes at a lot of the logging camps. You work, you get sweaty, then you shed your clothes and jump in the water. No one thinks twice about it - well, unless you're alone with someone cute."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Why do I think you didn't lack for company?"

"What can I say? I was the Finnick Odair of my day, in the misty lost memories of two whole years ago."

On screen, the Finnick Odair of this day has worked his way up to the highest part of the rock forest, and is looking out across the northern plateau, which offers no shelter or water. There are a few scraggly bushes trying to grow in the rocks.

"Well," Finnick says. "Where there are bushes, there's water. So Mags, I'll find it!" He grins sunnily at the sky, as if he's not at all troubled by being exiled, friendless, hungry, and armed with only a spear.

He goes back into the hoodoos, taking a steep path down to the floor of the canyon-like formation. The plateau is at the top of what, on this side, looks like a solid cliff. Finnick starts following it.

Chaff leans over. "Well, _this_ looks familiar."

"I was at the top of the cliff," Haymitch says. "Totally different. _And_ I was looking for the end of the arena."

"What do you think he's looking for?"

"Water. Did you miss that?"

"But he thought the trees would have water."

"Right. So he's looking for a way under the trees. To wherever they're getting their water from. He's trying to find a cave system."

Chaff shakes his head. "If chess pieces thought like people, I'd never beat you, would I?"

"Only if they were thinking like they were in an arena."

Chaff has to break off the conversation, because his tribute, Swather, has managed to startle the Games' first mutt, a snake with a tail that makes a rattling sound. Swather managed to snag a backpack from around the Cornucopia, but he doesn't have any weapons, and has to improvise. He ends up killing it with a large rock, but he's taken a bite, and Chaff puts his energy into buying some antivenom.

Like most years' first day coverage, the commentators don't seem to know what to do with themselves now that the tributes have finished the blood bath and split up. They're exploring their surroundings now, and the media long ago decided that no one is interested in watching this.

Except for Haymitch, of course.

While Chicory and Eloise set up a watch and Batten looks for food, Haymitch tunes in to each of the remaining groups and starts a rough map of where they all are and what's around them. Finnick has found a fissure in the rock wall and slipped into a dark cave under the north plateau. The inner district kids have made it all the way to the "tail" of the island, which turns out to have a small forested area, complete with fruit trees. Vannivar Simmons from District Five is attempting to climb the hoodoos, using the laces of his boots to make what looks like a really inadvisable rope. Swather has joined up with his district partner Poppy Hughes, and D'Arcy Hoff, from Five. They've found a second, tiny strip of beach. Chester Henry from Nine and Orabelle Erbe from Ten are still wandering the canyons, somewhere in the middle of the arena. Six more tributes are wandering around alone. The terrain all looks more or less the same to me, but Haymitch is absorbing all of it as quickly as he can.

The runner returns with our hiking brochure. The rattling snake seems to be, as Haymitch suspected, a local threat. There are also largish cats, coyotes (which I've never seen, but sometimes heard howling), and a good number of spiders. Haymitch studies them and starts going over the antivenoms on the purchase list.

In the late afternoon, Vannivar's makeshift rope breaks, sending him hurtling fifty feet to the rocky ground. The cannon sounds immediately. I don't look when they show the body.

Finnick's cave turns out to have some sunlight in it, from small holes in the ground above (Haymitch rolls his eyes at their attempt to paint this as a coincidence). Momentarily safe, he starts trying to concoct weapons from whatever he's got at hand.

"I wonder why Mags isn't sending him anything," Jack muses. "She must have enough money for a knife - at least - by now, since he lost the ones he had at the Cornucopia."

"I'm not sure," Cecelia says. "I've never come close to having enough to buy an actual weapon. First day? She really might have it, even with all the calls."

"Or she's just feeding him," Haymitch says, pointing at the main screen, where a parachute is dropped through one of the sunlight holes in Finnick's cave. It has an extensive picnic basket. He grins directly toward one of the supposedly hidden cameras and says, "Thanks! That'll help."

He digs in.

No one else is sending food. I check the price list - it's no wonder. Even today, before the prices have started to go up too much, it's exorbitant, and I'm guessing Twelve isn't the only district to lose sponsors to Finnick Odair.

Since even Finnick can't make the act of eating a sandwich particularly interesting to an audience, they finally switch away from him, and go to the main body of the inner district group. Dempsey is crouched at the shore of the sea, digging in the sand. Manlius is testing fruits for toxicity. The others are counting up their haul from the Cornucopia.

"Do you want to go for the loners first?" Paulina asks. "Easy prey."

"Once you _find_ them," Opal points out. "It's easier to look for the groups, and it might be smarter to take them on while we still have all of us. Well, minus Finnick."

Blaze snorts. "Yeah, whatever will we do without him to grin everybody to death?"

They all laugh.

In the end, they don't go hunting that first night. The arena is inhospitable, and all of the tributes spend their time arranging food and water. To my surprise, the little money Haymitch and I scraped together is apparently one of the bigger amounts - we could afford to send more water (at least at the moment) if it's necessary. The inner district group has the stash from the Cornucopia, but otherwise, the mentors are scrambling. They'd been counting on the alliance with Finnick, and they're pretty much flat broke. Their phones aren't ringing. Neither is ours. Even with only Eloise to work with Jack is tapped out. Cecelia is still trying to spread money between Batten and her girl, Audrey Lewin. (Technically, Woof is looking after Audrey, but his memory is spotty. Cecelia says that he fell on the ice in the river trying to stop a girl from running at the fence. He hit his head, and the girl ended up bringing _him_ back into town. He was unconscious for two days, and woke up not quite right.) They each got water, but she can't even begin to touch food. Orabelle and Chester have nothing at all.

With three districts in the alliance - three mentors and three escorts - we're able to give each other decent breaks. I don't envy the production crew, which is struggling to fill the mandatory viewing hours. Because Finnick made an oblique reference to Haymitch's Games, they actually call him in for commentary, something they rarely do. We all watch. He tries to take the opportunity to talk up Chicory, but the analyst, Herodion Lake, insists on bringing it back around to Finnick, even bringing up the same comparison Chaff did, about walking along the cliff. Haymitch is decidedly less amused by it this time.

"You spent your first several days in the arena alone," Lake says. "No allies, no company. How do you think Finnick - and the other singletons, of course - are feeling right now?"

"Same as the ones in alliances," Haymitch says. "Scared. Being alone won't set in for a while. It starts to feel strange."

"Do you think your tribute, Chicory King, would team up with Finnick if the opportunity arose, like you teamed up with your district partner?"

"It's hard to know what someone will do in the arena…"

"But with the inner district alliance rejecting Finnick Odair, he would seem to be a good ally to make."

Haymitch looks about ready to hit something or someone, but he manages to control himself and remind Lake that he has no way to communicate to Chicory that Finnick wouldn't be a plant from the other alliance. He doesn't mention that Chicory despises Finnick… and probably would have despised Maysilee Donner for being a "merchant girl." It wouldn't make any more sense to the broader audience than it does to me.

He's in a bad temper when he gets back and resists when I tell him to take a break, so I make up a question in dire need of discussion (whether or not to send Chicory purifier pills, given that as far as we can tell, he'll be dependent on bottled water), get the District Eight escort to watch our phone, and take him to a dark corner of the mentor's lounge for dinner.

He stabs moodily at a pasta dish, stirring it around his plate, but not eating. I give him water, which he wrinkles his nose at.

I wait for him to settle down a little. "Do you need anything?" I ask him.

"I need them not asking me questions about someone else's tribute," he mutters. "Think you can swing that?"

"And not asking questions about when you were there?"

"I don't care."

"I don't remember you ever talking about it. Not really."

"_You're_ going to make me talk about things like that?"

"Not unless you want to. But you've been… hinting at it. Talking about Maysilee. Joking with Chaff. You even mentioned Miss Meadowbrook. You've never really talked about her. She talks about you a lot."

"She does? Still?" I nod. He rubs his head. "I'm sorry about what happened to her. I shouldn't have… Or should have… I don't know. I don't know what I was supposed to do. I probably should have kept up with her. But after Capitol Dreams, she just seemed so… I don't know. Out of order. I'd have ended up doing something worse if I'd tried to stick around."

"You thought something was wrong with her, so you left her?"

"I'm not Prince Charming, Effie. You know that better than anyone." He looks at the light coming through the door to the main room. "First time I met her was my Victory Tour. She paid for the privilege. If the Odair kid wins, how many people are going to pay for _that_ privilege?"

"It's just a donation for the party…"

"No, Effie, it's not." He's quiet for a long time, then says, "Okay, yeah. My head's been back in the arena. I don't know what it is about the kid, but he's got me thinking about it all the time. Maysilee. Beech. Gilla. My old escort, Gia. Mostly me." He shifts around uncomfortably. "He's a rich Career district kid with more sponsors than I ever dreamed about having, but there's _something_. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there in the woods. Looking for something." He rolls his eyes. "And the pretentious poet comes back for an encore. Sorry."

I shrug. "It's all right. I figured it was something like that. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Is this the new escort duty? Therapist to your victor?"

I look down. "Actually, I thought we were getting to be friends."

He laughs, but it's not his cruel laugh. More rueful. "Getting to be friends? Effie, we've been together six years now. These are the seventh Games for us, aren't they?"

"I thought it was the sixth." I frown. "I lost count. I guess it is the seventh."

"At any rate, the only friends I've known longer than you are Beetee and Chaff and Seeder, and we spend half our time plotting against each other when we're together."

"What about at home?"

"Shockingly, I'm not a popular party guest in District Twelve. I talk business with people who used to be my friends, but that's about it." He raises an eyebrow. "And don't act like I'm the only one. You spend the year with sponsors."

I smile. "Guilty."

"You don't actually need to ask about water purifying pills do you?"

"No."

He nods. "Thanks, Effie."

We don't talk much over the rest of the meal, but he seems a little calmer. Not any more cheerful, but calmer. He sends me off to sleep and goes back out to the table, and wakes me at about three in the morning so that he can catch a few hours.

The Gamemakers make it rain at eight o'clock, and the thirsty tributes run out and drink. Finnick finds a freshwater spring under a rock in his cave.

On the second day, the inner district kids go hunting. They catch Audrey Lewin, weak from lack of water, crawling out from the cover of the rocks to get to one of the fresh rain pools. They taunt her before they kill her. When they're finished with her, they start searching the interior of the island. They come across Dorothy Merriott, from District Nine. Apparently, they're bored, because they make a sport of tossing her around like a ragdoll before they dash her head on the rocks and drag her to the sea. Paulina crows about how she wants to prove that it's not just about getting the supplies, but about being _better_ than the rest of the field. This gets their phones ringing, albeit somewhat feebly.

There is rain again on the third day, and the remaining tributes spend the day hunting animals for food, and trying their hands at eating the scrubby vegetation they've found. Dempsey harvests some seaweed, but barely escapes an attack from a shark. She spends the day trying to convince the others in her alliance to grab spears and hunt the sharks for dinner, but she has no luck. Chicory and his allies manage to find a veritable feast - three lizards caught in clever little traps, followed by a soup Chicory brews from the leaves of the scrawny trees.

Swather, Poppy, and D'Arcy are exploring the barren hilltop on the fourth day of the Games when they spot one of the air holes leading down to the cave where Finnick has been hiding. Poppy suggests an alliance. Swather and D'Arcy are less than enthusiastic, but she manages to convince them to try.

Finnick is out of the cave hunting - he comes back with a dead snake over his shoulders - and he misinterprets their presence. He raises his spear.

There's a brief fight. None of the alliance kids has a weapon, other than Swather's sheer strength. Finnick manages to spear Poppy… the first tribute who's sought him out for an alliance. Swather grabs him and throws him down, screaming about ingratitude while Finnick tries to explain himself, but it's to no avail. They fight to a standstill, and Finnick ends up abandoning his cave. He tries to approach Chicory's group, but they fight him off. (Haymitch is tearing at his hair through this.) He has no better luck with Rollin Yazzie from Ten, who's been wandering alone for days and has gone strange. He attacks Finnick, and the two of them fight viciously, wounding each other and finally driving each other back. Finnick retreats into the canyons, looking for another hiding place. He is very close to Sidiki Lattimer from Three, but she doesn't come out of hiding.

There's coverage for three days about why such a personable child is having such a hard time with the other tributes. They dig up Chicory's school records and report on his altercations with several boys in District Twelve ("All town names," Haymitch mutters), and try an exposé down in District Four… on Dempsey's bad attitude.

The money keeps pouring in to Mags. She sends Finnick top-of-the-line medicine for his wounds from the fight with Rollin, which heal rapidly. She has more phone lines installed, and a small staff of runners answering them for her. No one knows how much she has, but she's obviously saving for something. Blight has stationed himself with her to help. I remember him saying that he knows Finnick's parents. Six days in, he's confronted by several other victors, accusing him of actually giving financial support to another district while one of his district's tributes is still alive.

"I bought a squid," he says through clenched teeth. "I cook. They're expensive. I thought I'd try one. I have seafood on the brain for some reason."

There's a great deal of grumbling, but no one can say for sure that he didn't, in fact, buy a fish. The fact that the fishmonger turned around and sent most of it to Mags _could_ have been a coincidence.

Haymitch doesn't care.

That night, Finnick runs across Blaze while both of them are hunting… Finnick for food, Blaze for victims. The fight is long and brutal, but Finnick is more skilled with the spear than Blaze is with his hunting knife. He goes down. Finnick takes the knife. He uses it to scratch a "4" into the soft stone nearby. His face has become no less beautiful, but there's something cold in it now.

When the inner district kids realize that Blaze is dead and see Finnick's mark on the rock, they guess - correctly, according to Haymitch - that he's calling them out. They have a long conference. Dempsey still suggests leaving him alone to die, but they point out that he's been thriving, contrary to her predictions. Paulina suggests that Dempsey is really still trying to protect her district partner. Opal concurs. Manlius doesn't. The accusation is enough to make Dempsey indignant, and in the end, they decide to put their combined strength into hunting down Finnick the next morning.

Mags tallies her sponsorships and goes upstairs to the Gamemakers… an action generally taken when a mentor wants to buy something out of the ordinary, something off the list.

In the dead of night, a parachute lands beside Finnick, with a long, sturdy package attached to it.

A trident - a fishing spear from District Four. Finnick takes it in his hands.

We won't know it for another day, but the Games are over.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**  
Finnick picks up the trident and holds it loosely in his hands. It is about as tall as he is. The shaft is made of black metal. At the tip is a three-pronged fork, bright steel that seems almost white in the moonlight of the arena. Finnick closes his eyes for a minute, then opens them and looks at the trident again. He nods.

The coverage cuts back to the studio, where Claudius tells us breathlessly that he sent for experts on trident fishing as soon as the order went in. Most fishing tridents are barbed, but Finnick's isn't - it would make it too easy for the weapon to become stuck. The experts - Capitol men who fish our lake as a hobby - are enthusiastic about how a fisherman like Finnick will use the tool.

While they're talking, Haymitch has re-trained our screen to Finnick's feed (Chicory is asleep, anyway). Finnick is scrambling along the cliff face, stripping off dried plants and seaweed. He finally seems to find what he's looking for - a dried vine-like plant that comes off in long, rough strings. He pulls down an armful of the stuff, then sits down in the shadow and starts tying knots.

Beside me, Chaff swears under his breath.

Haymitch looks over. "What?"

Chaff scribbles something on a piece of paper and shoves it at Haymitch. The word I see - "Retiarius" - means nothing to me.

Haymitch doesn't seem to know it either, and looks blankly over at Chaff.

"Net man," Chaff says. "Net _fighter_. I would have thought you'd have read everything about gladiators."

"I don't read about the Games when I'm not here," Haymitch says.

Chaff shakes his head. "Seeder, hand me your shawl."

Seeder frowns, and takes off the net-like shawl she's thrown over her shoulders. "What for?"

"Demonstration."

I lean forward to watch and find out what Chaff is doing as he folds the shawl into a little square. Suddenly, his hand moves. The shawl flies out, and it's over my head. It's lightweight, and I can't think how it could possibly hurt me.

Until he pulls the corners tight. I try to move my arms, but I can't.

Chaff picks up a knife and holds it over me. "Try to fight," he says.

I can't even move my hands up to block the blow. Even when he lets go of the scarf, I've managed to twist it around myself in the struggle, and I can't get free of it until Haymitch deliberately unwraps it and hands it back to Seeder.

"The Gamemakers in Ancient Rome," Chaff says, "used to have fighters who killed by using fishing tools. People thought they were cowardly, because they ran away a lot instead of fighting blow for blow - they didn't have any armor, and the other guys usually did - but I wouldn't want to face one."

On screen, Finnick keeps knotting. He's got several vines coming down from one anchor, and he's making tight little diamond shapes. His face is utterly blank.

"That kid's going to be messed up if he makes it out," Jack says.

"As opposed to the models of good adjustment that the rest of us are?" Haymitch watches for a minute or so, then turns to me. "I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up in three hours and then you get a few hours."

I nod, and he goes away.

There's really no reason for anyone to be awake and manning our phone. No one is calling us. Mags's lines are still going, and a few people are helping her answer them, but other than that, the Viewing Center is as still as most of the arena.

I strike up a conversation with Jack about his assistant, Linden, and learn what I can about District Seven. It seems like as good a thing to do as any.

By the time I'm supposed to wake Haymitch, Finnick has several rows of netting done, and I've been chatting with the District One escort about some trends we've seen for winter fashion. I'm exhausted, and glad it's time to get some rest.

I'm about halfway down the aisle of beds when I hear Haymitch's voice.

"You know I have no idea what you're talking about, Plutarch. Loyal citizen here."

"I'm _clean_!" another voice says. I assume it's Mr. Heavensbee's, though I haven't heard it enough to say for sure. "And I'm not trying to trap you. Just telling you… well, sorry I was gone so long. We were friends before."

"No, we weren't."

"Sure we were. And if you can trust your escort, you can trust me!"

I stop, frowning, and sink back into the shadows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Haymitch asks, his voice low and dangerous.

"Just that she's been in Capitol Dreams, too. And you trust _her_."

"Effie's completely, totally, and unquestioningly loyal to the Capitol. Go away."

"I'm not trying to trap anyone. And if that's true, I'm surprised you do trust her."

"She's a decent human being, which puts her way above me and you and most of the other people I know."

"But she's not… one of your _friends_. I seem to remember you pushing someone else away - that actress - because of Capitol Dreams, and you're sure pushing me away at light speed, but - "

There's a scuffle and suddenly Mr. Heavensbee is shoved out into the aisle. Haymitch is holding the front of his shirt. "You listen. And whoever's listening can listen. I'm not pushing Effie Trinket anywhere. She's a great escort, and I'm glad to have her - "

"It's not bugged…"

" - and I don't give a rat's ass about anything else."

Haymitch glares at Mr. Heavensbee, then gives him a light shove. He scurries away into the dark. Haymitch looks toward me, then smiles and rolls his eyes. "Good timing."

I come out of the shadows. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. You said to wake you up."

"Plutarch got here first," he says, coming over. "That wasn't a show for your benefit. I really mean it. I don't care what your politics are."

"What's going on, Haymitch? Why does Mr. Heavensbee think you can't trust me?"

He shrugs. "He doesn't. The Capitol thinks I'm involved in a rebellion. I think he's trying to get me to say something incriminating."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Involved in a rebellion? They gave me a file on you when I came. They said you burned down the Peacekeepers' office in Twelve."

"It was well deserved."

"So… are you?"

He looks at me steadily for a long time, then says, "I'm not going to tell you lies, Effie. But don't ask me that."

I nod. "So, you were telling them that I'm not a rebel."

"Why? Are you?"

"No."

"Why not? I know you hate watching the kids die every year."

"I do. But Haymitch, how many more would die if there were a war? You told me that you read history books. You know what wars are like."

"Yeah. But…" He rubs his head. "Is this peace, Effie? Really?"

The question makes me uneasy. It should be simple. We're not at war. There are no battles. Nothing is blowing up. We're enjoying the peace of the Capitol.

But Trill and Babra.

Hecky and Mercy.

Donkid and Windy.

Kelman and Dotty.

Berry and Ronka.

Nasseh and Sunny.

Treeza. Most likely Chicory.

But it's not _war_.

"I don't know," I say. "But I know I don't want bombs to start falling."

"I don't either. Not really." He takes a deep breath, and reaches over to hold my hand. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to let anyone start targeting you. I kind of need you."

"What did you mean about not pushing me away?"

"Exactly what I said. I don't care what you believe about the Capitol, or peace, or bombings. I care that you help the kids when we bring them here. I care that you keep me from going off the deep end, so _I_ can help them. I'm not going to walk away from you just because you're… well, because we might not agree on everything. I did that once, and I regret it." He smiles a little bit. "Don't tell Mimi I said that. She'll get maudlin."

"I won't," I say. "And for the record, you _can_ trust me with your confidences. I wouldn't have told her anyway."

"You could trust me with yours, if you ever gave me any."

I laugh. "I wish I had a secret to tell you at the moment, just so I could trust you with it. I mean, other than the fact that just now, I have a wild desire to kiss my boss until he can't breathe."

"You have truly terrible taste. Unless you're talking about Caesar, I guess. He's decent." He grins at me, and for a second, I think it's really going to happen, that he really means to _let_ it happen. Then he just presses his lips to my cheek. It's friendly, and maybe it lingers a little more than it should, but that's all. "You should get some sleep," he says. "Tomorrow's going to be bad."

It turns out to be beyond bad.

One of the runners wakes me up at dawn, because the battles have begun. When I get out to the District Twelve table, Haymitch and the others are staring at the screen in horror.

The inner district kids, thinking that they've found easy prey, go to the area where Finnick was last night. They're trapped against the cliff face. Finnick drops rocks on them, stunning them, then starts to use the two weighted nets he made. He traps them and spears them through the neck. Their blood rushes out, and he pulls out the spear without even looking, moving on to the next in his trap.

At the end of it, he's covered with blood. His green eyes gleam out from the reddened mask of his face. The cannon goes off four times. Eloise Tate has been foraging nearby, but he doesn't see her. He sits down on a rock and waits for the claw to lift the bodies away.

Eloise rushes back to her camp.

"Finnick Odair's gone crazy," she announces to Chicory and Batten. "We have to get away. He just killed all of the other Careers."

"No way," Batten says. "It's not possible."

"Someone sent him a weapon. He's good with it."

"What kind of weapon?" Chicory asks. "We can guard."

"I didn't see all of it. It's some kind of spear. And a net."

Chicory snorts. "Sounds terrifying."

"It's a spear and a net more than _we_ have," Eloise points out.

"So what do you want to do?"

"Make an alliance with him."

"Make an alliance with the crazy guy?" Batten says. "That doesn't sound like a good plan."

"He _wanted_ an alliance. If we're with him, maybe he won't kill us."

"I think it's beyond that," Jack says. "We have to tell them no. Haymitch, what do we have? What can we send them?"

Haymitch shakes his head, not looking away from the screen. "I've got nothing. I think their best bet is to get away from where they are. Someplace where they can run easily, and he can't drop that net. The north part… the bare land above the cave where Finnick hid. The wind will catch the net, and he can't trap them against the stones."

"But they'll be in plain sight," Cecelia points out.

"So will Finnick." Haymitch bites his lip. "I can't think how to send them there. They already decided not to stay there. But maybe… Finnick listens to Mags. He asked for her. He tried to work with his district partner. _Maybe_ he'll listen to Eloise. But not if she can't get his mind off killing them."

"It's the Games, Haymitch," Jack says. "And he's started to hunt. I don't think he's going to stop thinking about it until the trumpets go off."

Haymitch nods. There's nothing else to say.

Finnick continues to hunt, his nets tucked into his belt, his trident held at his shoulder. He spies Chicory's alliance just before noon. Chicory and Eloise are sitting side by side - the worst possible way to guard against a net - when he finds them. He traps them both before they see him coming, and they're gone in seconds. Batten manages to fight a little, but doesn't last much longer. Finnick has killed eight people in five hours. Claudius assures the viewing audience that this is a Games record. Combined with his earlier kills, he's tied the total kill count record for an individual tribute already - ten - and is in a position to "smash" that record before the Games end.

All three mentors go to call the families. I feel queasy. I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up. I think of Finnick sitting calmly in the Remake Center, waiting for Mags, speaking to me so politely. I can't square it with what I'm seeing in the arena.

I try to go home, but the streets are full of merrymakers, many of them cheerfully playing at being net-men, miming Finnick's kills. A young woman makes a lewd suggestion about how she'd like to get her hands on his spear. The man she's with laughs and asks if he can watch.

I run back inside. The mentors, at least, aren't having a party.

Finnick continues to hunt. There are two pairs of allies left - Orabelle Erbe from Ten and Chester Henry from Nine are still together. Swather's alliance of three is down to two - he's still working with D'Arcy Hoff, from Five. Other than that, Rollin Yazzie is wandering around the island's tail, talking to someone who isn't there, and Sidiki Lattimer is hiding in her little lair not far from the Cornucopia. Finnick finds her shortly before sunset.

"Why are you still here?"

I look up. Haymitch is standing beside me. I realize that he's been away from the table for hours, and has started drinking. He's not especially drunk yet, but his eyes are red and his speech is starting to slur. "I don't want to go home," I say.

"Fair enough. Mind if I do?"

I shake my head. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

"You do that."

He disappears.

I stay up at the table alone, watching the tributes navigating the arena. Finnick isn't asleep, but he looks like he's in some kind of trance, sitting in Sidiki's lair and recharging. The telephone rings.

It isn't one of the outer lines. It's the Gamemakers' line, which almost never rings, and shouldn't ring at all once a mentor's tributes are dead.

I pick it up. "District Twelve."

There's a pause. "Is this Miss Trinket?"

"Yes."

"Plutarch Heavensbee. I need to meet with Haymitch at my place. About… about next year. Something we're thinking about, and I want his opinion."

"He's gone. He's back at the apartment."

"I tried calling there. I thought that's where he'd be."

I suspect Haymitch routinely ignores any phone that's not on the table in the Viewing Center, but it seems the better part of valor not to mention it. "He's… well, he's not feeling well."

"Drunk?"

"Not feeling well. We lost our tribute today."

"I know. I'm sorry. But tell him to meet me at my place tomorrow morning." He gives me an address. "It's very important."

I hang up and head across the plaza to the Training Center. I take the elevator up to the District Twelve apartment.

Haymitch is sitting on the couch, drinking straight from the bottle and watching the Games. At the moment, Claudius is giving the history of the now-deposed record-holder for most individual kills, a boy named Divine Carew, who slashed and hacked his way through ten tributes during the fifth Games, bringing District One the first of its many victories. There was a joke for a long time that those Games should be known as "Divine's Retribution." Man-on-the-street interviews look for a nickname for these Games. "Beauty Bests the Beasts" seems a popular theme, though some want to riff on the "Odair"/"I dare" sounds.

"Mr. Heavensbee wants to see you tomorrow morning," I say after a while.

"No," Haymitch says. "I'm done for the year." He is clearly much drunker than he was earlier. His words bleed into each other. He almost drops the bottle, and has to fumble for it with both hands. "Hasn't he been watching his own Games? I'm… done."

"He says he wants to run something by you for next year."

"No he doesn't. They can't run Games things by mentors. He wants to get me to say treason." He laughs and says, "Treason! Hey, Plutarch, you hear it? Treason!"

"But he said it's about next year's Games. It could be important. Or maybe useful, anyway. Maybe you could pick up a clue."

"You go. Find out what he wants."

"I think he wants to see you."

"Anything the Gamemakers say to me they can say to you. I'm not doing anything against the law. You hear me?" He looks wildly up at the ceiling.

"You should sober up, or you'll still be hung over -"

"You go," he says again. "I'm done, Sweetheart. Duties dutifully discharged."

I sigh. "All right. I'll find out what he wants. You should go to bed. Do you need help?"

He looks at me crossly, then seems to surrender, and nods. I help him up and put his arm over my shoulder. He's sober enough to hold his own weight, but I have to steer. In the morning, I doubt he'll remember that there _is_ a meeting.

I put him down on the bed and toss a blanket over him. He catches my wrist and kisses my hand. "Want to stay?" he asks. "I want you to stay."

"Ask me when you're sober."

He smiles. "I know better when I'm sober."

"That's kind of my point." I pull myself away from him - a feat that's more difficult some years than others, and this is the worst it's been - and go back out to the living room. I watch the Games coverage for a while, then, once everyone is definitively asleep, they cut to an old movie about the founding of District Four.

I wake up a little bit after dawn. The television is still on. They're interviewing Mags about Finnick, but it's been interrupted by D'Arcy Hoff, fishing on the smaller beach, the one away from the Cornucopia. She's managed to stick a large fish with a sharpened stick, but in the studio, Mags is yelling at her not to eat it.

"It's lethal," Mags says, looking at Claudius, wide-eyed. "She can't…"

But D'Arcy hasn't had anything proper to eat for days. She rips the raw flesh from the fish and swallows it while it's practically still quivering.

The convulsions start five minutes later. The cannon takes another half an hour. By the time she dies, her ally, Swather, has found her, and he holds her as she shakes her life out on the sand. I look over my shoulder and see Haymitch standing at his bedroom door, watching. When she dies, he goes to the bathroom, and I hear him start to retch.

I ask if he needs anything. He tells me that he needs me to go to Mr. Heavensbee's meeting. I'm surprised he remembers it.

I go home to change my clothes and put on a new wig, then head out to the address Mr. Heavensbee gave me. It's not far from my place, actually - another one of the gleaming glass apartment complexes on the lakeshore. Mr. Heavensbee's building is a delicate shade of yellow.

The doorman rings me up - just saying "District Twelve is here" - and when I get there, the door is ajar.

"There you are," Mr. Heavensbee says. "I was about to call and cancel. My shift at the simulators starts in - " He turns and sees me. "Miss Trinket. I was expecting Haymitch."

"He's… he says you can tell me whatever you meant to tell him."

"It's not a matter of _telling_." He shakes his head. "I wanted to talk to him about the mines. It's been a long time since there's been an arena particularly friendly to District Twelve. I can't say everything, of course, but I wanted his opinion on, um…" He frowns, agitated. "I wanted to ask him how the miners see when it's dark underground. And what animals might live in mines. We often ask victors about their districts, you know."

"Animals in the mines," I repeat. "I… don't know."

"Which is why we wanted to speak to Haymitch," a woman says, coming out of Mr. Heavensbee's kitchen. She looks cross. I've seen her before. The last few years, she's been something of a hanger-on at Capitol Dreams functions. There are always a few. She shows up in fashions two seasons out of date, her hair messy and her expression dogged and determined. Capitol Dreams events welcome everyone who comes, but I doubt she was ever directly invited to one. "I'm sorry, Miss Trinket, but you don't have his expertise."

"Haymitch never worked in the mines either," I point out. "In Twelve, no one goes to work until they're eighteen… at least not in the mines."

"His parents were miners," the woman says brusquely. "Surely, he's heard something. We _needed_ to see him."

"Are you a Gamemaker?" I ask.

"This is Fulvia Cardew," Mr. Heavensbee says. "My partner. She was helping me with some ideas. We were hoping Haymitch would have some insight."

"I don't think he'd want to help design an arena," I say. "Besides, that wouldn't be fair to other districts."

Mr. Heavensbee snorts. "Haymitch would _love_ to try his hand at making an arena. He just won't admit it."

I decide not to engage this. It's not entirely untrue. "And wouldn't an underground arena have bigger problems than what animals there are? Like clean water? And how would you drop the parachutes?"

"Obviously, there would need to be a different delivery system," Fulvia says dismissively. "That's not what we needed to discuss. Haymitch wouldn't know about that, at any rate."

I have a feeling that Haymitch would be thinking - despite himself - of half a dozen ways to deliver sponsor gifts underground, but I believe Fulvia that they didn't call him here to talk about it.

"Is there anything I _can_ do?"

"Get him sobered up and send him over," Mr. Heavensbee suggests.

"He won't come."

"Of course he will."

"No. He… well, he says he's done for the year."

"Plutarch can order him to show up," Fulvia says.

"That would hardly be helpful." Mr. Heavensbee sighs. "I hope he'll reconsider. We were friends a long time ago. I was on his Victory Tour with him. I - " He shakes his head. "Miss Trinket, would you tell him that I mean him no harm at all? I've always been fond of him, and I just hoped we could strike up our friendship again. That's all. And here," he says, rummaging around on a table, and coming up with a piece of paper. "It's a bread recipe for his friend. Tell him it's from the Capitol. He never did collect one here."

He hands me the paper. It's a recipe for a fancy kind of bread - half a cake, really - that's often served at overnight parties. For some reason, he's edged the paper with exquisite, hand-drawn feathers. "I don't think he and the baker are friends anymore," I say.

"Give it to him, anyway."

I nod and take it. "I'm sorry I couldn't help."

"Quite all right. I'm sure Haymitch thought he was doing the right thing. I'm sorry he troubled you with it."

He turns away, and that's that. I leave the apartment and go back to the Training Center. Haymitch has started drinking vodka-spiked orange juice. I give him the bread recipe.

He stares at it with a lot more attention than I think it probably deserves, then puts it carefully into a briefcase. He dumps the spiked juice and switches to water. He hadn't gotten very far in the day's drinking, and he's sober again in an hour.

"Well," he says, "I guess Plutarch really does need to see me. About animals in the mines." He rolls his eyes. "Does he even know how toxic the water can be down there?" With that, he leaves.

I turn on the television. Swather has taken D'Arcy's death hard, according to Claudius. He's been preparing for a hunt of his own. He manages to find Chester and Orabelle. None of the three of them are armed, but Swather is huge, and the arena is strewn with rocks. He dispatches them easily, and the field is down to three: Swather, Finnick, and Rollin Yazzie, who is still wandering madly around the end of the island.

Finnick has his net out again, and is stalking along the Cliffside at the north end of the island. He and Swather spot each other, but they're separated by a deep bay.

Swather jumps in the water. Claudius is very excited about sharks, but it never comes to that. He's caught in a current that drags him out.

Finnick sets down his trident and moves to dive.

"Ah," Claudius says. "Is Finnick Odair finally making an error? In District Four, of course, it would be habit to save a drowning man. Finnick will have been raised on this from early childhood. Will he risk being caught in the riptide himself? Could Rollin Yazzie outlast both of his final competitors?"

Finnick has stripped down to his shorts and shed his shoes, but he suddenly stops.

He stands up. Picks up his trident.

And watches Swather Brooks drown.

The cannon sounds.

The rest of the day is the same as the end of any other Games: Two tributes, both nearly feral, circling one another warily. Rollin is outwardly crazier than Finnick, talking to himself and answering someone or something that isn't there, but Finnick seems completely withdrawn. (Commentators refer to this as "the concentration of the alpha predator.")

They finally come to blows at sunset on the beach. The blows don't last long. Rollin all but surrenders. Finnick throws the net over him - a formality - then spears him in the throat like the others.

He kneels down beside the body, hand still on his trident.

The trumpets sound, and there is a new victor.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**  
Security around Games headquarters is tripled when Finnick is brought back to the Training Center hospital to recover. I can't enter or leave without showing my badge at four checkpoints, and each building has a separate code.

I can't argue with the necessity of it. Finnick Odair's Games are not like the others, and there will be no rest for anyone involved, at least not any time soon. Instead of interest moving on from the Games to the next fashion, passions about the Games are getting more intense. I've seen on television that Finnick's fans are absolutely wild. Fishing trips on the lake are booked for the first time since they started having them. Designers are working nets into all of their collections. The Gamemakers can barely keep up with public demand for more about the boy from Four - they've been reduced to airing hour-long specials about his favorite foods and colors. Reporters pester Mags for quotes from Finnick and stories about his childhood. A producer promises a movie as soon as he can find someone decent to play the part. They keep showing shots of his hospital room window, though it would be impossible to see anyone not standing right there.

"I don't get it," Cecelia says in the Mentors' Lounge, where several of us gather the first night, waiting for Mags to come down with news of his condition. "He seems like an all right kid, and he's certainly beautiful, but no one's brought up anything interesting enough to hang a story on."

"Beauty makes you interesting," Jack says. "Sad fact of life, but it's true. People didn't know anything about me except the way I looked, but I ended up on _Panem's Most Fascinating_ my year… and I've got _nothing_ on Finnick Odair. He'll be number one on the list, easy, even if he opens his mouth and can't talk competently about anything other than fish."

His escort, Barnabas Laird, says, "You made the list because I worked my contacts. It got you good sponsors."

"Did you read the article?" Jack asks. "It covered the vital questions of my hair care regime and what kinds of make-up I might like to try, now that I can afford it. And of course, the ever present questions about my ideal girl."

Beetee sighs. "It's never made sense to me."

"Human nature," Haymitch says, shrugging. "If you're waiting for _that_ to change, better be prepared to sit a spell."

Mags comes down a few minutes later. Finnick isn't in bad shape physically - the usual dehydration, a few cuts and scrapes - but he's withdrawn and jumpy. Since they want him to be "natural" with the cameras, they're going to send in a counselor and give him a week.

"A week to recover from killing half the field," Cecelia muses. "How generous."

"He'll be okay," Mags says. "He knows what the Games are. He didn't want to play, but they weren't going to let him sit it out." She sits down. "That's what the trident was really for, you know. There wasn't anything he could do with it that he couldn't do with the spear he already had. But when he was little, he used to talk to me about the Games, and what he'd do if he got reaped. You know, the kind of thing all the kids do - "

"Maybe in Career districts," Cecelia interrupts.

"Maybe," Mags says. "I don't know. I know that it's common enough in Four. I didn't think much of it. Anyway, he was fishing from my dock when he was about nine, just starting to think about being eligible for reaping. He was always good with the trident, and he killed a good number of fish. He said that's what he'd do in the arena. Just like fishing."

"So why didn't he do it with the spear?" I ask.

Haymitch looks at me. "My brother used to make traps for me to break out of, and he'd ask how I'd get away from someone in the arena. I always had an answer. But it's different when you're really there. It's one thing to say, 'Yeah, I'd take them out and get away.' It's something else to actually stick a knife into a kid's neck."

"Exactly," Mags says. "I sent him the trident to remind him what he said… and to give him permission to do it. So he'd know I wouldn't hate him, and his parents wouldn't hate him."

"There'll be other parents who will," Beetee points out.

"Aren't there always?" Mags raises an eyebrow at him. "I don't remember people being overly fond of _you_ after you electrocuted boys you didn't even try to fight."

"I never could have beaten them. I was sixteen, but I was small."

"So's Finnick. If he'd wasted time trying to take them on even ground, someone else would be upstairs recovering right now, and you know it."

No one argues with this point.

"So," Jack says, "how should we welcome our new club member?"

They joke in a lazy way for a while about hazing rituals that will never happen (new victors are not generally in any fit state to be hazed; that will wait a while, if it happens at all), then we all head upstairs to sleep.

I go home the next day, meaning to commute back and forth since Haymitch has decided to take meetings with Plutarch Heavensbee after all, and there's no reason for me to stay on the grounds. In fact, there's no reason for me to commute routinely, since I'm only on call - available if Haymitch needs me to take care of something for him. I could go back to my apartment, do some end-of-Games paperwork, and set up meetings for Haymitch all in the comfort of my own breakfast nook. I usually come in two or three times to make sure he has what he needs for sponsor meetings, but otherwise start to decompress and pull away from the Games. It's what I've done every year after the first.

Getting out of headquarters is a nightmare. Crowds throng in the streets, hoping to get a view of Finnick through the hospital window. Many young girls (and some not terribly young girls) are carrying homemade signs proposing marriage and declaring their eternal love. When one girl thinks she catches a glimpse of red hair at an upper window, she actually faints. Girls around her scream Finnick's name wildly. The news covers this extensively. They call themselves "Fannicks," and they are repeatedly interviewed about their passionate arguments over Finnick's best moment in the Games, and who loves him the most.

It takes me forty minutes to get through the tightly-packed crowd, and it's all the Peacekeepers can do to hold them back from storming the plaza. By the time I catch a cab back to my apartment, I know that my only options are staying home and not coming back at all, or staying in the Training Center apartment until the Games are over. I opt for the latter. I don't want to navigate that crowd again if there's an emergency. I pack several days' worth of clothes and supplies and brace myself to get back in.

It's even worse coming back, since people recognize me and actually try to snag my badge when I present it to the guards. I almost scream when several of them tear at my wig, and the world goes glassy and fragile around me. The Peacekeepers have to pull them off me and escort me behind the line. When I get in, my hair is askew and my clothes are wrinkled and even torn in a few places. I take a few minutes to catch my breath and let my heart slow down. I'm glad for the relative peace of the elevator up to the apartment, though its glass sides do give me a particularly disturbing view of the crowd I just came through, which is two blocks deep around headquarters in every direction.

"Moving in?" Haymitch asks when I drop my things inside.

"I decided it would be easier," I say.

He takes in my appearance. "What happened to you?"

"Did you see the crowd?"

He goes to the window and looks out. "Wow," he says. "I suddenly feel anonymous. No wonder Plutarch decided to have our meetings at headquarters. He's probably staying here, too."

"So you met with him?"

"Yeah. I doubt we're going to see an underground arena for a long time. There's no _way_ that they're just conceptualizing for next year. Next year's arena's probably done except for the mutts. I think that was a carrot-and-stick thing. See if he could tempt me to meet with him by implying that there'd be clues."

"Oh."

"And I'm not helping them build an arena."

"I told him you wouldn't want to."

"They'd have to come up with a whole new delivery system for the sponsor gifts. Underground, I mean. You could have mine shafts coming down for parachutes to go through, but you couldn't know that tributes would be anywhere near them… unless there were so many that there wouldn't be much point to being underground. They'd have to have something like false walls that you put things on conveyor belts for, and a system for doors or something to open up at any point on the path."

"Water would be hard, too."

"In a mine, yeah. But if they just did a cave, you could have a clean underground lake. Maybe a river. The lighting would be hard, but they always fake the lighting anyway." He bites his lip, and I remember Mr. Heavensbee saying, _Haymitch would _love_ to try his hand at making an arena. He just won't admit it._ I still don't believe Haymitch would want to build anything to help kill tributes… but his brain just can't help turning over the problems. He catches me looking at him, and says, defensively, "I didn't say any of that to Plutarch. Though I guess with the bugs, he just heard it anyway." He looks up at the ceiling. "Congratulations, Plutarch! You're the first Gamemaker to trick me into playing the damned game."

"Have you already started drinking?"

"A little bit."

"I wish you'd stop. You're too smart for that."

"I wish you'd stop wearing that ridiculous make-up and those silly wigs. We all have wishes."

"Well, you heard what Jack said last night - beauty makes people interesting."

"In that case, you'd be a thousand percent more interesting if you let people see your real face."

"So would you."

He looks at me shrewdly, then goes back to the window. "I guess Chaff and I won't be playing chess in the park this year. Think they'll get us cars to go to sponsor meetings, instead of having to walk through that mess?"

"I'll see about it," I promise.

We spend the rest of the day not doing much at all. Since he doesn't want to brave the crowd to go shopping, I help him buy some clothes for the year over the city networks, to be delivered to him out in Twelve. We go down to the lounge, where he and Chaff attempt to teach me to play chess, but I'm lost and end up wandering over to the spa, where Seeder and I have manicures. I get her to tell me a little bit about District Eleven, where the earth is red and people can easily go without coats most of the winter. ("And generally go _un_easily without them for the rest of it," she mutters). She tells me about funny men and women who wander the fields, talking about retribution and atonement. I tell her about the men here who wear hair shirts and slap themselves in the face at the lake shore. She asks why I didn't stay home like the rest of the escorts. I can't think of a good answer.

Mags comes downstairs for a while, and Haymitch and Chaff go up to sit with Finnick. Cecelia rolls her eyes and says someone should go up and make sure they're not getting him drunk. When they come down so Finnick can get some sleep, Beetee goes up to keep an eye on him.

"Is this what you usually do when I go home?" I ask Haymitch as we go back up to the apartment for dinner.

"Mostly." He leans against the wall. "It can get scary waking up in the hospital. We all know it. Chaff and Seeder and Beetee were with me."

"What about your mentor?"

"I didn't even know Drake was my friend until the Victory Tour. And even then, I wasn't sure."

The elevator door opens. I go straight to the table and order up a couple of meals. "Does Finnick know what's going on outside?"

Haymitch nods. "He's got a television in there. I don't think he's really absorbing it, though. He's still pretty out of it." He goes to the bar and pours himself a drink.

He continues drinking through the evening, getting progressively drunker as we watch television on the couch. He's sober enough at first to poke fun at the Fannicks, but as Games coverage gives way to a marathon of _Nero the Fiddler_ (a soap opera about a composer trying to make a splash, and his misadventures with assorted friends and lovers), he becomes first maudlin, then weirdly sentimental.

He's not a mean drunk - in fact, the only times I've seen him be genuinely cruel, he's been stone sober - but he does keep trying to hug and kiss me until I tell him that if I have to move his hands one more time, I'm going to brave the crowd and go home. He makes a great show of sitting on his hands for the next half hour, then passes out and sleeps through the night. I put a blanket over him, and let myself kiss his cheek. He smiles in his sleep.

I don't have anything to do, so I go to his room and borrow one of his books. I take it back to my room to read. It's a locked room mystery, nothing anyone would object to. He probably only bought it because it takes place in District Twelve, though the writer is a Capitolite, of course. Haymitch likes to read this sort of thing mostly so he can complain about it, as far as I can tell. In the story, a dead miner is found alone in a chamber after a cave in, stabbed in the back. They've been digging for two weeks, but he's only been dead for a few hours. No one could have come or gone. I try to guess it. The simple answer - that he rigged the knife somehow and fell backward onto it in order to frame an enemy - seems too easy, and I guess it must be something else, but I can't figure it out. The bulk of the book is the detective Peacekeeper, with his slow-witted but trustworthy miner sidekick, interviewing everyone the dead man ever met.

This one is obviously fully approved by all of the authorities. I think it's even sold here in the Capitol. I suspect that Haymitch collects books that _aren't_ approved, but he'd never show them to me, let alone bring them here. I sometimes wonder what's in those books that makes them dangerous, but I know better than to go looking. Like Miss Meadowbrook says, there are some doors it's better not to open, because you'll never get them closed again.

I read until I drift off, and dream that I'm the sidekick miner, and Haymitch is the detective. He's determined that somehow, the Gamemakers did it. I try to explain that there are no Gamemakers in the book, but he won't listen. He says they are planning on feeding the dead man to the Fannicks, which will magically calm them down in some way.

He's still passed out when I go out to get breakfast in the morning, but he's passed out in a new place (the love seat), so I guess he got up at some point. He's holding a knife in one hand. I decide it's probably better not to shock him awake.

I decide to go to the hospital and see if anyone needs anything.

Jack is in with Finnick (though I can see through the door that both of them are sleeping), and Mags is sitting at a little table in the corner of the waiting area, breathing in the fumes from her empty coffee cup.

"Can I get you another?" I ask.

"Thank you," she says, holding the cup up. I go down the hall and re-fill it, and get one for myself as well. By the time I get back, Jack has woken up and is walking blearily toward the table. I hand him my coffee and go back to get another.

"…and extra guards," Mags is saying quietly when I return. "Every exit. The whole entrance area downstairs. They're vetting the staff, too."

"About what?" I ask.

"Someone leaked footage," Mags says. "It was on this morning. Nothing terrible - just Finnick washing up - but it means someone's in here with an unauthorized camera."

"Or an authorized one," Jack mutters. "Could be surveillance footage. We know they have cameras in the training room to keep tabs on tributes. Why not the hospital?"

"Which is why they're vetting Games staff," Mags says, then looks at me. "Not you, honey, they know you've been upstairs. Hospital people. Security staff." She laughs humorlessly. "We have to secure the security staff."

"Will he be safe back in Four?" I ask.

"Oh, his parents are as good with tridents as he is," she says. "And frankly, I've kept up with my slingshot. I think we can keep him reasonably sheltered for a little while."

A nurse with a cart of meds goes by us. He turns into Finnick's room.

"Keep him sheltered as long as you can," Jack says. "Mags, it's going to be ugly if these people get their hands on him."

"That was supposed to be _over_." Mags crushes her empty coffee cup and tosses it into a wastebasket. "Years ago. Jack, you shouldn't let them."

"I extracted some privileges in the trade," he says. "It's been made clear that I'll lose them - possibly in an irrevocable way - if I don't hold up my end of the bargain."

I think about Jack's Games, about the way he and his friend took solace in each other. And I think of the women he now squires around the Capitol.

I try not to understand the trade he's talking about.

There is a sudden clatter from Finnick's room, followed by a scream of revulsion.

"Get off me! _GET OFF!_"

We drop our conversation and run inside.

The nurse is crouching under the window, his hands raised above his head in supplication. Finnick has grabbed one of the dozens of flower vases in the room and is holding it like a club. They're both breathing hard - the nurse in terror, Finnick in fury. It's the first I've seen of him since the arena. Most of the kids are pretty wasted when they get back, just from the privations of the Games, but Finnick ate and drank well, and wasn't in the arena very long. He looks just like he did at the parade, except murderously angry.

"What is this?" Mags demands. She takes the vase from Finnick, but doesn't show any signs of letting go of it herself. She insinuates herself between them.

"I only wanted to _see_ him," the nurse says. "I'm an artist. I've been drawing from memory. I had to sneak in. My sister works here. I borrowed her uniform. I just had to look at him!"

"Yeah, well, apparently he's blind, then," Finnick tells Mags, "since he was looking at me with his fingers, in places I _better_ not find out he's been drawing."

Jack grabs the man off the floor and shoves him into the wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"He's just so beautiful. I was just going to look. I swear I was just going to look!"

Jack shakes him and bangs his head into the wall again. And again. He collapses, semi-conscious.

The guards finally show up.

"Guess you'll be arresting me for assaulting a Capitol citizen," Jack says, offering up his wrists for cuffs as the attacker is dragged away.

The Peacekeeper in charge, not bothering to hide his disgust as he glares after the arrested man, says, "You know, this once, I'll let it slide." He grimaces. "I have a sister who's fourteen years old. If it were her, it wouldn't be the guy's _head_ I'd smash into oblivion."

He leaves.

Finnick goes back to bed. He grimaces and fumes, but definitely doesn't look withdrawn.

"Are you all right?" Mags asks.

He rolls his eyes. "I've dealt with grabby old people before," he says. "Remember Duffy Monahan? She had more hands than your average octopus." Suddenly, his surly expression breaks, and he smiles. On camera, it would look good, I'm sure. In here, I can still see him with the vase raised above his attacker's head… or a trident raised against his fellow tributes. He strikes a pose. "What can I say? I'm cursed with irresistible beauty."

Jack shakes his head. "That was an attack, Finnick, not a flirt. Don't confuse the two."

"I know. But… you know. I can deal. I'm good." He shrugs. "I guess that settles the question, though."

"What question?" I ask.

"Well… I wasn't sure I'd be able to fight anymore," he says. "You know. After… after what I did. In _there_. I guess I can still fight enough."

"That's good," Mags says. "Because you're going to have some fights coming up."

He looks out the window at the mountains. "If I give them what they want - if I give them a good show, and I tell jokes… they'll let me go home, right? The counselor they had in yesterday kept saying I was supposed to get back to normal before the closing events."

"I think that's the idea," Mags tells him.

"Then I'll work on it. I'll make sure I can keep it up for a while. Can I wave to the crowd?"

"What?" Mags asks.

"The crowd. The" - he winces - "the _Fannicks._ Can I wave to them? Then they can all see that I'm all right. And we can get this over with, and I can go home."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jack says cautiously.

Mags weighs her options. "Try it," she says. "We're safe up here, so if… well, they can't very well climb the building to wave back."

Finnick gets out of bed and goes to the window. We're high up and behind thick glass, so I can't actually hear the crowd, but when he raises his hand and waves to them, they all rush toward the Peacekeepers' restraining line, waving frantically and blowing kisses. Finnick blows one back.

Jack yanks him away from the window. "Don't push it. You don't want them thinking of you kissing them."

Finnick rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's an air kiss. I've been tossing them around since I was four."

"I _mean_ it."

Finnick studies Jack's face for a minute, then holds his hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine. No kisses."

This seems to be it. Finnick keeps up his manic good cheer for ten minutes, then seems to sag. He goes back to bed. Mags stays with him. Jack and I go down to the lounge and meet Haymitch and Beetee for breakfast.

At around ten, the news anchor starts teasing "exciting developments" about Finnick, with exclusive footage. At the noon news hour, surveillance footage from the hospital comes on, showing the entire attack, and Finnick's violent, immediate response. The point seems to be that he's come out of the arena undamaged and ready to take on the world.

The Fannicks are furious, crying in rage on the street that anyone would dare to hurt him. They want the man - now identified as "Portraitist Licinius Blythe" - to suffer.

Before the afternoon is half over, he has. An angry mob crashes into his studio, destroys his artwork, and breaks the bones in his hands.

I am in the waiting area with Seeder and Mags when this happens. Finnick comes out of his room, looking pale. Mags goes to him and puts her arms around him.

He makes no more appearances at his window, and is excruciatingly cautious through all of his closing interviews. He's careful to praise all of his fellow tributes and their brave, mourning families. He explains that passions get high in the Games, and no harm was meant by any of the things he hears them say on the final release of the Games. He thanks Peacekeepers. He thanks Gamemakers. He thanks every victor he can list, and the people of District Four, and the escort from Four, and me. The persona he adopts otherwise is carefree and good-humored, with just an edge of flirting that he seems totally unable to control, no matter how many times Jack tells him to stop it.

At the end of the final interview, Caesar asks him, "If you could say one thing to your many fans - and I promise, you can! - what would it be?"

"Well, they already know I love them, right?" he says. "So I guess I'd say… thanks for, um…" - he loses the thread and settles for just smiling for a minute (a split screen shows girls sighing in ecstasy) - "… for caring," he finally comes up with. "Thanks for caring about me, and now you should go home and take just as good care of yourselves."

This is parsed by several analysts while the trains are loaded.

I go down to the station with Haymitch, and get him settled in the cold car between Treeza and Chicory. I can see the three open wounds in Chicory's neck.

"They've already forgotten that these two ever existed," Haymitch says.

I don't have an answer for this. I just kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand. I ask him to put his phone back so I can reach him if I have to, and he ignores me. I tell him that I'll see him next summer, like always.

But the strangeness of these Games isn't over yet, and I end up seeing him a good deal sooner.


End file.
